Under the Sun, the 999th Hunger Games
by Josephm611
Summary: "There is nothing new under the sun." The cycles of nature repeat over and over again, and everything that happens has happened before. However, as the 999th Hunger Games comes and goes, people are working, planning, and bringing something new under the sun. SYOT CLOSED. Sequel to Meaningless.
1. Prologue, 1

**A/N Welcome one, welcome all, to the second installment in the Ecclesiastes-verse,** _ **Under the Sun**_ **. Here's a little bit to make this a story, and I'll see y'all below this little bit from Octavian Snow.**

 _ **Octavian Snow, 28, Assistant to the President**_

Panem is a messed up place. I knew that when I was a street kid, but after the President adopted me, it became even more obvious. Back then, I only saw my tiny world. Now, I see all the problems with Panem. Maybe that's why I want to become president someday; I want to make the necessary changes.

I lean back in my chair and stretch before coming back down onto the desk. It's been one whole year since Dad raised the minimum wage in District Eleven, and things seem to have gotten better. We destroyed a few factories in Eight a few months back because the workers were being exposed to large amounts of radiation. The crime rate in Six has dropped. Even though it's exhausting, it's all worth it when I see these results.

I stand up and look at the clock. 11 PM. I'm done for the night. I leave the business section of the Presidential Mansion and enter the residential side, where only Dad and I live. I go into the kitchen and pour myself a cup of herbal tea. Usually, during the day, Avoxes would be here, but at night, Dad doesn't want them here. He prefers the total silence after a long day of work. I walk to the dining table, where he sits, sipping from a steaming mug and reading a book.

"What did you think of today?" he says, looking up. This is what I love most about Dad; he tries to find time for me, even now.

"It was okay today," I say, sitting down. "District Twelve is an interesting case. I want to help, but I don't know how."

"Yes," he says, sighing, "I wish it were easier. How are you doing with the case in One?"

"The Sierra case?" I ask. Ever since their daughter perished in the Games last year, the Sierra family has been growing distant. Their work is sub-par, and they're starting to seem suspicious. This is the first matter Dad has fully given to me, so I've been extra careful with it.

"Yes."

"I'm still waiting for more information. I-"

" 'Tavian, you know what I mean. I asking about _you_. How do you feel about it? How are you doing?"

I sigh, unsure of how to respond. "W- well-"

"Watch that stutter."

"Well, I think that they have a right to feel that way," I say, spilling it. "I'd be mad if someone I loved died because people watching didn't help."

He looks at me and puts down the book.

"I'm sorry if it sounds rebellious-" I say, trying to salvage this.

"Don't worry," he says, "I feel that way too."

"W-W-"

"The stutter."

"Sorry," I say, "But don't you support the Games?"

"Yes," he says, "But you have to understand, 'Tavian, that I don't support them because I like the Hunger Games. It's not that simple."

"What?"

"The people of the Capitol love the Games. If the people in the Districts revolt, we can keep the peace because they're so far away from here, the political center of Panem. But if the people here revolt… We're in big trouble. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I say.

"Good," he says, "Don't worry about the Games. Things are changing, and soon, you won't have to worry about them anymore."

 **A/N Once again, welcome to** _ **Under the Sun**_ **! By the way, Octavian is on the blog for the Ecclesiastes-verse at ecclesiastessverse. weebly. com. This website will be the hub for everything thing related to the Ecclesiastes-verse.**

 **Rules:**

 **1\. Submit by email if possible. I really hate digging through my PM inbox, so please, if you can, send your forms to josephm611ffn gmail. com. You can also submit from the website, and if that doesn't work, use PM. One of the three should work for you.**

 **2\. Read all the notes on the form. There is some critical information there.**

 **Tips & Notes:**

 **1\. Review! This tells me who's reading, and I often look at this when choosing bloodbaths.**

 **2\. I'm giving myself a lot of power to tweak things, so don't whine about it if something gets changed. Tell me if you don't like it, but don't whine..**

 **This is all I have for now! The form and everything else can be found on my profile and on the Ecclesiastes-verse website. There is no deadline, but if a few spots won't close, I may create tributes just to fill it up.**

 **Looking forward to the submissions! Tell me what you think of the Snows!**

 **~Joseph**


	2. Prologue, 2

**A/N I'm back! Things have quieted down quite a bit, so I'm going to slowly ease back into my writing schedule.**

 _ **Maximius Reyne, 53 Years Old, Head Gamemaker**_

I lean back in my chair and look the aspiring Gamemaker in the eye. So far, he's done fine. He's creative, quick on his feet, and a pleasure to work with. Most people forget the last one, but I don't care how skilled you are if you are a nightmare as a co-worker. There are always others with the same skills; most young people here in the Capitol forget that the world doesn't revolve around them. I lean forward again and place my hands on my desk.

"What is your goal as a Gamemaker?" I ask. This is the question, the one that makes or breaks a career in gamemaking.

"Well," he says, confident as he's been throughout the whole interview. "I just want to put on a great show. I want the Games I work on to be the best ones ever made."

I mentally push a buzzer. Wrong answer. I stand up and shake his hand. "Thank you," I say, "You will be notified if we choose to accept you."

"Thank you," he says, oblivious that anything's wrong, "I look forward to working with you."

Too bad for him. This should also teach him a lesson about presumption. This happens every year. We open a few Gamemaker spots, and everyone wants to get in. It's too bad for them that most of them don't get the point. It's been so long since the beginning of the Games; so few people remember what the entire point of the Games is.

I toss the guy's resume into the garbage can. I won't be needing it anymore. I look down at the stack and call my secretary.

"Send the next one in," I say, "Gavius Pherinora."

The door opens, and a young man in his twenties confidently walks into my office. His hair, dyed a simple off-white, contrasts well with his back suit. I could see him becoming a fashion trendsetter if he ever becomes famous. This interview is about to determine that.

I stand up and offer my hand. "Hello, Mr. Pherinora," I say.

"Hello, Gamemaker Reyne," he says, his voice smooth but certain, "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Take a seat." I gesture to the empty seat.

"Thank you."

Nice. Polite, confident, and smartly dressed. Way to make a good first impression. It's amazing how many young men today don't thank anyone for anything.

"So, Mr. Pherinora," I say, "May I call you Gavius, or do you prefer to go by your last name?"

"Gavius is fine," he says, "It feels weird being called anything else. If I ever make it big, I'll get used to it, but for now, Gavius will do."

That "If" was critical. He knows that I have the power here, and he's not going to strut his feathers. I can't imagine him showing off, though. "Okay, Gavius," I say, "Tell me a bit about yourself. What's your background?"

"My father is the CEO of Jeweline Cosmetics," he says, "and I think he originally wanted me to go into business. I didn't want that. That's really why I'm here. A future as a Gamemaker would fit me better than a future as a CEO."

"Why do you say that?" I say. Gamemakers make a decent lot of money, but the sum is nowhere as large as the salary of the CEO or even a manager at Jeweline Cosmetics. It's the biggest company in the Capitol, after all. Most people would die to get a high position in the company.

"I don't want to sit at the top of my dad's company," he says. He pauses. "I didn't work for it. People will remember me as my dad's son, not as me."

It's a good reason, but it doesn't seem completely natural. There's something deeper. I ask him a few questions about his skills, and I find that he's more of an author. That's critical. You have to be able to spin a plot out of the Games.

Finally, it's time for the key question. "I just have one last thing I need to know," I say. "What is your goal as a Gamemaker?"

His face darkens, and his smile disappears. "I'll make the rebels pay," he says.

"Elaborate."

He looks down at the ground for the first time since he came into the room. "Thalia was the love of my life," he says, "She was everything I ever wanted. She was gentle and kind. She spent her time helping the homeless and building shelters for them. She was even training to be a lawyer because she wanted to be able to defend those who can't defend themselves."

He takes a deep breath. "Last year." His voice hitches, and he clears his throat and brushes his right hand over his eyes, wiping at tears. "She died in the Floreala Sector fires."

He looks back up, his face cold as steel and his eyes burning with the fire of hatred. "That's when I knew that I would make them pay. They're tearing our nation apart, and I refuse to let them do it. Most of all, I won't stop until everyone knows that no one messes with the Capitol and gets away with it. My Games may not be spectacular, but I will forever remind the rebels who has the power."

He looks back down and gets up. "Thank you for your time."

I stand up and walk over to him. I try to smile, and I put my hand on his shoulder. He looks up.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," I say. "I can't do anything about that. But if it makes you feel any better, welcome to the team."

He nods slowly and wipes his eyes again. "Thank you," he says. "Can I have some time?"

"Sure," I say, "I'll see you next Monday."

 **A/N What do you think of Maximius and Gavius? Personally, Gavius is one of my favorite OCs that I've created for the Ecclesiastes-verse, along with Octavian, Klinka, and Velleius.**

 **Anyway, submissions are still open. I haven't received very many, so I'd be greatly obliged if you help spread the word about this story.**

 **Also, ChocolateChipHomocide, you have a guaranteed spot. Please try to get your tribute in as soon as possible.**

 **See y'all soon! I look forward to more submissions!**

 **~Joseph**


	3. Prologue, 3

**A/N I'm back! Submissions are kind of slow… I'd greatly appreciate it if y'all could do some advertising. But until then, I'll just continue to review several characters from Meaningless. Here's Velleius.**

 **If you read Meaningless, there may be some repetition of ideas. I'm trying to make it so that a new reader doesn't have to read Meaningless to understand Under the Sun.**

 **Also, I'm going back to the States in two days! You know what that means? MORE CHAPTERS! YAY!**

 **ALSO (again), this really isn't a big thing, but you all have to stop thinking about Panem the way you think about it in the books. Throw away your previous ideas about who's good and who's bad because Panem is no longer the same. This specifically refers to the Inner District Trained alliance and the Snows. The Inner District Alliance is NOT the Careers. They aren't always even as strong as the Outer District Alliance. They can't afford to hunt, so they have to settle for simply surviving as a pack. And the Snows, they aren't necessarily evil. I know; most presidents in SYOTs are evil, but keep this in mind: I will rarely make my antagonists blatantly evil. If it's unclear who my antagonist is, then I have succeeded.**

 **Whoops; that was a tad bit too long.**

 _ **Velleius Essault, 37 Years Old, Capitol Citizen**_

I take off the Peacekeeper helmet, my hair drenched in sweat, and place it on the rack in the Peacekeeper station. It's been another long, boring day of standing in one place, doing nothing all day. I suppose my fellow Peacekeepers in the districts have more exciting lives, but as one stationed in the Capitol, my life – as well as my pay – sucks.

It's only because my ancestors were District Three citizens before the Dark Days a millennium ago. The ones with Capitol ancestry – Capitolians – have all the advantages and all the perks of living here. Those of us with District ancestry are looked down upon, and it's nearly impossible for us to move up the social and economic ladder. We're very rarely promoted, and most Districto Peacekeepers are stuck standing in the Capitol for their entire life. Most of the time, only Capitolians and volunteers from One and Two are sent to the other Districts, in particular, the problematic ones such as Nine and Twelve. Nine because it's common knowledge that the rebel movement is alive there, and Twelve because violence against other citizens is so common. Many experts predict that Twelve will cease to exist in another century if it continues to self-destruct like this. In such districts, the Head of Peacekeeping forces, Carnelian Reeves, distrusts us Districtos.

Oh well, it's better than nothing. At least I'm making enough money to support my family; it's definitely better than dealing with all my debt. I signed a contract for ten years in return for being debt-free, and it's already been three years. Considering that I had to choose between this and prison, I think it's safe to say that I chose the better option. I'm a lot safer here, anyway.

I take a quick shower and put on my regular clothes before I take the bus home. I live in a cramped apartment complex; more than half of all District One citizens are better off than we are. Still, there's enough room to live and raise my five-year-old son, Cyprian.

I get the stack of letters from the mailbox and trudge up the rickety stairs to where we live on the fifth floor. It seems like this place was designed to make fun of us and tell us that we're not equal to the Capitolians. If we were equal, we wouldn't be stuck in these poor corners of this city. I grab my keys and open the door, where I'm immediately hit by the smell of spaghetti. No one cooks like my wife, Lilia.

"Daddy!"

Cyprian runs up and me and wraps his arms around my waist. I bend down and pick him up. "Cy!" I say, tickling him. He laughs. "What did you do today?"

"I made pizza!"

"Really? Cool!" I say. Nothing brightens my day more than Cy greeting me when I get home from work. Lilia looks over from the kitchen and smiles. I put Cy down. "It's mommy time now, okay?"

He nods and goes back to playing with his toys. I step over his wooden-block building and go into the kitchen.

"How was your day?" Lilia asks.

"Same old, same old," I say, throwing down the mail on the counter. "I stood at the corner where Peace Avenue and Harmony Street intersect. The most exciting thing that happened was a lady chasing her dog."

She sighs. "Please, don't talk like that. It almost sounds like you're complaining about your day now."

I shrug. "Nothing happens. How about you? How was your day?"

"Well," she says, thinking for a moment, "I dropped Cy off at his daycare and then went to meet a candy distributor to talk about buying from them." Lilia works as a manager for a small chain convenience store, but even with that job, she barely makes more than I do because of her ancestry. It's so unfair. "When I brought Cy home, we made little pizzas," she says.

"Ah," I say, "He seems like he enjoyed it."

"He did," she says, her face bright and happy.

I begin looking through the mail. Most of them are advertisements for things we can't afford; are they trying to rub it in? At the very bottom of the stack is a letter from the Assignment Bureau at Peacekeeper headquarters.

"Huh," I say.

"What?" Lilia says, looking up from her cooking.

"I got a letter from the AB," I say.

"What?! Why?"

"I'm still opening it," I say, pulling the letter out and beginning to read aloud.

 _Dear Mr. Velleius Essault:_

 _You have been reassigned to District Three for two years. Be at the station on May 22_ _nd_ _for further details. You will be departing on May 27_ _th_ _._

"That's the gist of it," I say, "The rest is a whole bunch of stipulations and a warning for those who choose not to go."

"District Three?" she says, looking over my shoulder at the letter, "Oh… Gosh…"

I look further down. "And I'm not allowed to bring anyone." That means… I'm leaving my family for two years. I won't be allowed to see them at all. Cy will be in school in two years.

"You're leaving on the 27th… That's ten days!" Lilia says, "Don't they usually tell you a month in advance?"

I look at the timestamp. "They sent this on April 29th," I say, "It must've gotten delayed in the mail."

"Our stuff always gets delayed in the mail," she says, sighing, "Can you ask for it to be changed?"

"I can't," I say, "Only Capitolians have that right. And you know I have to go." She nods. The last person to resist was executed.

I look up at her, and she wipes her eyes. I stand up and give her a hug. "It'll be okay," I say.

She doesn't reply.

"Daddy!"

I look to the kitchen door, and Cy stands there, looking at us in surprise.

"Why is Mommy crying?"

I let go of Lilia and go over to Cy.

"Daddy will be going away for a long time," I say, bending down.

"Why?"

"I have to," I say.

"But why?" he says, grabbing me, "I don't want you to go away."

"Daddy can't explain," I say, "But I won't forget you. I'll write letters, okay?"

"I don't want you to go!" he says.

I sigh. "I don't want to go either," I say. "But I have to."

Once he calms down, I stand up. And that's when it hits me.

My ancestors were from District Three. In a twisted way, I'll be going home.

Of course, I hate leaving Lilia and Cy, but maybe, just maybe, there will be _some_ good in this trip.

 **A/N So… how many of you remembered him? I'm just curious. If he's new to you, what are your impressions of him?**

 **Submissions are** _ **still**_ **open… C'mon guys!**

 **See y'all!**

 **~Joseph**


	4. Prologue, 4

**A/N Submissions have been largely slow… right now, I just need the District One Male and the District Two Female so that I can begin writing the Non-Reapings…. C'mon. Meanwhile, here are two POVs of characters that may or may not seem familiar to you.**

 **Wow… I sound dry. It's probably a result of sleep deprivation.**

 _ **Alexander Sierra, 17, District One**_

 _ **Brother of Aria Sierra, deceased District One Female in the 998**_ _ **th**_ _ **Hunger Games**_

I bang my fist on the wooden desk. I hate this. After I couldn't take training anymore, Dad thought that I would be more suited to an office life. He couldn't be more wrong. I tug at my tie. Ugh, it's so uncomfortable. I hate wearing these clothes. I need a break. I get up and leave the small office.

I hear footsteps behind me as I storm down the hall.

"Alexander, stop," a commanding voice says.

I turn around to face Dad. I learned from a small age never to ignore him, and I'm not changing that now.

"Where are you going," he says.

"To get a breath of fresh air," I reply.

"You've been getting a lot of that recently," he comments.

"I'm sorry, but I can't stay cooped up in the office when-"

"Let's talk somewhere else," he says, glancing around the hall. But why? Is he scared of something? "We'll go home for lunch today."

I follow him down the stairs and out the door of his office building into the wide parking lot. It's the middle of the day, and no one is out. No one except us.

"Alex, what's wrong," Dad says.

I take a deep breath. "I hate this life," I say, "I hate sitting in that claustrophobic room all day."

"Why?"

"Well," I say, trying to put the right words together, "It doesn't feel right."

"Feel right?"

"Yeah, like… like… I don't know how to put it."

"Like there are better things you should be doing with your time?"

"Yeah," I say, "That sounds about right. The Capitol has taken too much from us. I should be doing something to stop it."

He sighs, and his eyes look away from me for a moment before they return to meet mine. "Look, Alex, I know how you feel."

"Really."

"Yes, I do. I know it's hard after everything. It's hard for me and your mom, too. But we're not wasting this time. When things begin to change, we'll be more than happy to make our move. But not right now."

"Why not now? Panem needs a change."

"Yes, I know," he says, "But think about it this way. When things begin to happen, who'll be more useful to the movement? A rebel trying to fight his own way through the world, or a wealthy businessman that has influence in the government?"

I don't answer. We both know that he's right.

"I know you hate sitting back and waiting," he says, "Please be patient. It'll pay off in the end."

I sigh. "Fine, Dad."

He makes a weak attempt at a smile before turning around and heading for the doors back into the building.

"Oh, and Dad?"

"Yes?" He turns around.

"Can we still go home for lunch?"

His smile becomes genuine. "Sure. Let's go."

 _ **Duke Gallium, 17, District One**_

 _ **Brother of Imperial Gallium, deceased District One Male in the 998**_ _ **th**_ _ **Hunger Games**_

I stab the dummy's chest with a sword, and with a grunt, I shove it to the ground. I stick my fingers into the hole and rip apart the dummy, throwing stuffing everywhere. I'd usually consider myself a cautious person, but right now, I don't care. I throw the dummy's empty shell on the ground, empty, with its innards around it. Imagine that was the boy from Ten from last year. He'd deserve every bit of it.

Imperial was the ideal brother. Of course, he called me a nuisance, but don't all older brothers do that? My earliest memories are of him, playing with me in the snow and throwing snowballs at me. He always was the better shot; I stopped having snowball fights with him after a while. If only I had valued my time with him more.

It's hard to think about the past and _not_ have him in it. He was the one that defended me when I was bullied in second grade for my near-black hair. He watched me when my mother ran errands, and he made sure I did my homework. Even when we started training, he constantly was with me, helping me improve. So, I'm going to win it this year for him.

"Duke!"

I turn and see little Platinum, my nephew, running towards me with that mischievous grin of his. He just turned three last week. I look up, and I see Duchess, who is his mother and my sister, not too far behind him. I wrap Platinum into a hug and look at Duchess.

"So, what are you two here for?" I ask.

"Well," she says, "I'm here to talk."

"Talk?"

"Yes," she says, "Talk. I figured that I might be able to get through to you."

"About what?"

She sighs. "Duke, you can't volunteer this year."

"Why not?"

"You're not ready," she says. "You're good; I know, but you're not ready yet. You're too angry."

"Too angry?" I scoff. "Our brother was killed last year in these Games. I'm not allowed to be angry?"

"It's not that," she says.

"Then what is it?"

"You get stupid when you're angry. You make decisions you'd never make if you were thinking properly."

"Like what?"

"Like that dummy," she says, pointing to the mess on the floor. I don't have any arguments to counter that.

It is true, though I don't want to believe it. If I did that to the dummy in front of me on an impulse, who knows what I'll do in the Games.

"Yeah, you're right," I say, dropping my shoulders.

She lets out her breath. "That was easier than I expected. I remember trying to change Imperial's mind when he was younger. I could never get him to budge."

"He sure was stubborn," I say.

"You know? I really miss him sometimes," she says, wiping at her eyes, "Sometimes, I think I've moved on, but then memories come flooding back and I can't stop…"

She's crying now, and I pull her into a hug. Platinum hugs her legs, wondering why his mom is crying.

"I'm sorry," she says, sniffling and trying to pull herself together.

"No, it's fine," I say, "We all heal differently."

"I'm glad you're staying this year," she says, "If I lost you too, I don't think I could handle it."

"Don't talk like that," I say, "It's for the best anyway that I wait a year."

But next year, no matter what, I'm volunteering, and no one can stop me.

 **A/N Yeah… I'm just trying to squeeze out chapters so that I can get people to notice this story. If submissions don't hurry up, I may have to fill in my own OCs...**

 **Gosh, it's too late. I gotta go to bed. I don't even remember what I usually say in A/Ns.**

 **So… yeah. Ending.**

 **See y'all!**

 **~Joseph**


	5. Prologue, 5

**A/N THIS SYOT IS NOW CLOSED! Finally! Five prologues are too many. But seriously, everyone. At first, submissions were crazy slow. I thought there was something was wrong with me. But then, after the previous prologue, submissions flooded in. I had to turn away so many… Why did y'all wait until now?**

 **The tribute list is here… but please don't skip this chapter. It really destroys the point of me writing it. Also, the blog is on my multipurpose website for the Ecclesiastes-verse: ecclesiastesverse. weebly. com**

 **There is a drop down titled "Tributes" and the Navigation Bar as well as a link from the homepage; you shouldn't have any problems finding the tributes.**

 **So… here is the last prologue.**

 _ **Joann Hewn, 17, District Eight**_

 _ **Close Friend of Zash Kamzoil, Deceased District Eight Male in the 998**_ _ **th**_ _ **Games**_

I walk up to the Laundromat, carrying a huge bag full of dirty laundry with both hands, and stop before the door. Zash worked here. His family owns this place. It's been about half a year since I set foot in this place, but I know it's been too long. I can't avoid it forever. I have to heal. Now, I just have to figure out how to open the door without using my hands. Maybe I'll use my thigh to support the bag, freeing up a hand. It's a little wobbly at first, so I stop to regain my balance. Next, the door…

All of the sudden, I lose my balance, and I grab the doorknob to keep from falling. "Ah!" I shout as the bag of clothes falls out of my hands and onto the dirty ground, spilling the contents everywhere. Oh, come on! If Zash were here, he'd tease me about it. I hated it back then, but now, I'd give anything for him to tease me. One year ago, I never thought I'd miss that. I crouch and try to stuff all the now even dirtier clothes back into the bag.

The door opens, and Vlad, who used to work with Zash, crouches beside me and helps me put the clothes back in the bag.

"Thanks," I say, "It's been a while."

"Yeah," he says, "Why don't you come here anymore?"

"I- I just couldn't take it. It reminded me too much of Zash."

"Well, I'm glad you're here today," he says.

I try to smile. "Me too. I was just going to drop off these clothes and go, though."

"Can't you stay?" he says, "I'm sure that Mrs. Kamzoil would love to see you. She's been really quiet and closed off."

"Wow, it's that bad?" I say. Vlad usually isn't the most attentive when it comes to emotions. If he noticed, it must be serious. Or maybe he got a social life.

He nods.

"Okay, then" I agree, "I have a few minutes."

He opens the door for me, and we walk into the Laundromat. It's a lot dirtier than I remember it.

"I'll take the clothes," Vlad says.

Mrs. Kamzoil is at Zash's usual spot. When she sees me, she comes out from behind the counter and wraps her skinny arms around me. It is serious. Has she been eating?

"It's so good to see you!" she says.

"Yeah, it is," I say.

"We've really missed you!" she beams, "How have you been?" She wears a genuine smile on her face as if she really cared about my life. I wish my parents were like that.

"I've been fine," I say, trying to avoid bringing up Zash. She needs a break from grieving. "Thanks. It's been a bit busy, but that's good. How about you?"

"We've been surviving," she says, her voice becoming softer, "It's hard sometimes, but we manage."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" I say, the words spilling out before I have time to think about it.

"It's fine."

"Are you sure?" I say, "You know what? I'll make dinner for you tomorrow night."

"I don't want us to be a bother…"

"It's no problem. My brother got promoted to manager, so we have a little extra now. Please, I want to help."

She sighs and smiles at me. "Thank you so much. I really appreciate you coming over today."

I look at my watch. I've been here longer than I should have. At least my parents won't care. "I'm sorry, I really have to go. I'll see you tomorrow!"

She wipes at her eyes. "Goodbye."

"Bye!"

 _ **Miracle Francis, 17, District Ten**_

 _ **Girlfriend of Angus Derwin, Deceased District Ten Male in the 998**_ _ **th**_ _ **Hunger Games**_

I watch the sky from my spot behind our food stall in the midst of District Ten's famous central street market. Sunset is coming, and soon, this'll be the night market. The clouds slowly move across the sky, like the passing of time. Sometimes, it feels like time goes by slowly, but once it passes, it's gone. Other times, time goes by too quickly. That's how I feel right now.

It feels like yesterday when Angus found me crying in the park. I still remember what he was wearing: a brown coat and dirty jeans with a hole over the left knee. He loved those jeans; he didn't care that there was a hole. He helped me get over my brother's death in the 996th Hunger Games. Little did I know that the Games would also claim his life. If only I had known, I would've valued our time more. Did I ever take him for granted? Did I make the most of the little time we had? What would it have been like if he never volunteered? I like to think that we would get married and live out the rest of our lives together. I can't do anything but wonder now.

"Honey?" my mom says, placing a hand on my shoulder, "Are you okay?"

I'm jolted out of my thoughts. "Yes, why?"

"You've been staring at that cloud for over five minutes."

"Oh, I have?" I laugh nervously. "I- I didn't know."

"Are you sure you're okay? I can take over. You go take a break. Take a walk in the park. Have some time alone?"

I think about it for a moment. "That actually sounds nice," I say, "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she says, giving me a hug, "Now you go take a break."

"Thanks, Mom."

She smiles, and I go inside to get my coat. It's pretty windy today, though you can't really feel it unless you go to a wide-open area such as the park.

When I get there, it's a little chilly. Winter is ending here is District Ten, and flowers are beginning to bloom. This was Angus' favorite time of year. He loved the soft grass and the delicate flowers. He always picked a few daffodils, those were his personal favorite. I pick a few, just for him. When I get to the bench where we always sat, I find a tall man wearing a big overcoat and a hat that shades his face. He looks up and tilts his hat up for just a moment. It's Mayor Derwin, Angus' dad.

"Hello, Mira," he says.

"Hey, Mayor-"

"Please, drop the 'Mayor,' you would've become family at some point. And sit down; I'd feel bad if I let you stand." He talks just like Angus did. I blink back a tear.

I try to smile. "So… what are you doing here?"

He hesitates.

"Oh," I say, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"No, it's okay," he says, "I used to bring Angus here when he was little. He loved this place, and when he was really small, he would whine if I tried sitting at some other bench."

"Of course," I say, looking around at the huge swaths of daffodils surrounding the bench. "He loves daffodils."

"Yes, he does."

I sit awkwardly, both of us unsure of what to say.

"You know?" he says, "Time went by so quickly. One moment he was a hyper toddler, and now…" he doesn't finish his sentence.

"I kinda get that feeling," I say.

"It makes me wonder," he says. I think I hear him choking back tears, too. I can't tell, though; the hat covers his face. "Did I give him enough of my time, or was I too preoccupied with my job? Did I raise him well?"

"I can't answer for you," I say, "But I think he turned out well. He was… so selfless. He must've had a great role model."

"I wish," he says, getting up, "I can't stay. But if you ever need anything, give me a call. I'll do my best."

"T- thanks," I say as he hurries away.

I think we could heal.

 **Question: Look at the POVs from this chapter and the previous one. What do they have in common (other than having relationships to dead tributes)? Is Joseph doing something with this? What is it? Or am I just trying to get y'all to overthink this?**

 **Now, here's what y'all have been waiting for. It's the tribute list!**

 **Tribute List:**

 **D1M: Onyx Avington, 18**

 **D1F: Splendor Boucher, 18**

 **D2M: Slate Valour, 18**

 **D2F: Animata Deeksha, 18**

 **D3M: Render Axum, 17**

 **D3F: Apple Kesari, 17**

 **D4M: Delmar Martin Jr., 16**

 **D4F: Harbor Douglass, 17**

 **D5M: Aaron Aileen Jr., 18**

 **D5F: Raffaella Silva, 17**

 **D6M: Diesel Wing, 18**

 **D6F: Christina Ford, 17**

 **D7M: Pembroke Thompson, 17**

 **D7F: Minisa Amaral, 18**

 **D8M: Serge Foulard, 17**

 **D8F: Taffeta Mitchell, 15**

 **D9M: Allio Spottedberg, 13**

 **D9F: Ryzee Fleet, 15**

 **D10M: Kaleb Sirius, 16**

 **D10F: Deborah Merlyn, 17**

 **D11M: Tyson Yarrow, 18**

 **D11F: Clover Forney, 16**

 **D12M: Ezra Robins, 18**

 **D12F: Keesa Ambel, 15**

 **A blog review (where you go to the blog and comment on all the tributes in one big review) will be greatly appreciated! Keep in mind that I changed a lot of things, such as ages, faceclaim picture, quotes, and sometimes the KDWE. I told you I was giving myself the power to change things without asking for permission. So, keep in mind that if something is on the blog, it's because I approved it.**

 **Finally, I may be gone for a little bit as I go on a vacation with my family. I'll also need some time to plan.**

 **Thank you to all that submitted, and I apologize if you didn't make it in.**

 **See y'all!**

 **~Joseph**


	6. District One Non-Reaping

**A/N Hey! We have now begun the Non-Reapings! For those of you who are new to my SYOTs, I don't write Reaping chapters. I abhor writing them, so I write Non-Reapings, which just show a certain day before the Reapings.**

 **Also, I have to thank y'all for 60 reviews! That's an average of 12 reviews per chapter! I haven't had this many since the prologues for Meaningless! Let's hope that people don't drop from reviewing…**

 **About the blog, I'll address some common concerns. First of all, Tyson is not black. There is a good reason for that. Clover is half black, so that works out.**

 **that's about it**

 **Let's go!**

 _ **Splendor Boucher, 18, District One Female**_

My father backs our car out of the parking space, filling my ears with beeping, before shifting gears and taking us out of the lot and onto the main road home. I am sitting in the passenger seat, and I watch as our vineyards fade away into the distance. Our vineyards. The Boucher seal on a wine bottle marks it as the highest quality in all of Panem. It's not grown in District Eleven, where the cheap families grow their grapes. We only settle for the best land in District One, and now that we've beaten the Armins in control of this area, we've firmly got our hands on the best grape-growing land in all of Panem.

"You are volunteering?" my father says, pronouncing the words more like a statement than a question.

"I have thought about it," I say, enunciating every word carefully, "I'm not going to volunteer."

He slows to a stop as the traffic light turns red, and he turns to look at me, narrowing his steel blue eyes. "Why not?"

"It's not necessary," I say, "There are better, more reliable ways to become successful. I don't need to be a victor."

The light turns green, and we speed forward. "Being a victor is a class of its own," he says, "No matter how successful I am, I'll never be equal to a victor. It will be the same for you."

"I don't look up to anyone," I say, my words sharp and biting.

"Watch your words," he returns, "Be very careful about what you say and how you act. It might be taken as rebellious."

Rebellious. May I never be associated with that word. Rebels burn, pillage, and destroy. Nothing good ever comes out of them.

"Still," I say, "I have made up my mind. I am not volunteering. I know they picked me at the ceremony yesterday, but I know that at least six of them are desperate to volunteer. I am not needed."

He pulls into our driveway and parks the car. "I cannot force you," he says, "Since you have made up your mind, go clean out your locker in the Training Center. You will not be needing it anymore."

When I step into the house, I see Pearl, one of our three maids, cooking lunch. I walk past her and into the living room, where Glory, my fourteen-year-old brother, has his eyes glued to the television screen, playing some Hunger Games simulation.

"You aren't volunteering, are you," he says without looking up.

"How did you know?" I ask.

"I saw Dad's face."

"Oh."

I keep going and go up to the room I share with my sixteen-year-old sister Elegance. She doesn't have any intention of ever volunteering. I can't imagine her in the Games at all; right now, she's busy embroidering a handkerchief with my cousin Prada, who is one year younger than I am. Her twin sister Gucci is probably somewhere nearby; they're always close to each other. She doesn't have the patience for this, though. If I had a guess, she probably just joined Glory downstairs.

I quickly change into clothes more suitable for the Training Center before hurrying out the door and going to the Center.

The sliding glass doors open for me as I enter the building. Though it's not hot outside yet, the air conditioning is blasting frigid air. The temperature in here is different every day; it's so that we get used to all weathers. I walk through the huge, main training room, where I see Onyx Avington throwing huge knives at the targets.

"Hello," I say, greeting him. The Avingtons are high class, equal in rank to our family. They're deserving of my respect, and so, I give it. Respect is needed when it's due.

"Good morning," he replies, turning his head. That's a pretty good start. He usually doesn't say much.

"Congratulations on yesterday," I say, "Being chosen is no small honor."

"Hmph." He throws another knife, "There are always higher honors."

"Very true."

He turns back to his knives, and I continue towards the locker rooms. When I sweep my eyes across the room, I lock eyes with Julieus Armin, son of the Armins, our major competition in wine production. We recently took hold of a piece of land they had their eyes set on, and they're not too happy. He glares at me with his cold blue eyes before breaking eye contact and going back to his spears. I hope his sister isn't around. She only makes my life harder.

I enter the locker room and find mine: Number 024. I twist the dial for what will probably be the last time, and the door pops open, revealing two jackets, a book, and a folder. That's all I have here.

I fold my jackets and stack everything together. That's it. I gave the locker a thorough cleaning when I first received it, so there's no need to clean it now—I've kept it as clean as a well-kept sword.

I pick everything up and hurry to the door. Goodbye. I won't be coming back here often, mainly because I'll be busy working under the Boucher seal. It's not that I haven't been doing so, but now I'm going to be a full-time worker. Of course, higher education is always a possibility, but only government officials need it. Whatever happens, life is going to change.

I shift everything I'm holding to my other arm to open the metal door, but at this moment, someone opens the door and walks right into me.

"I'm so-" She stops and narrows her eyes. "Splendor Boucher," she says, pronouncing the words as if they were poison.

"Iluma Armin," I say. Iluma is the oldest of the Armin children, and she was also selected to volunteer. She's the last person I want to see; it's even worse than running into a beggar.

She looks at the small pile of things in my arms. "Cleaning out your locker?"

"I'm sorry, but it's really none of your business," I say, wishing to blow up in her face. It's so hard to be composed around her.

"Oh…" she says, her thin lips twisting into a pale smile, "You're not volunteering, are you."

"What makes you say that?"

"You're too scared," she says, "Of course you are. You don't want to leave your precious little vineyards."

Or maybe I'm smart enough to see where my best odds are. And talking about our "precious little vineyards," we bought them fairly. But I keep myself from saying these things.

"As I said before," I say, trying to avoid sounding too rude, "It's none of your business."

"You won't confess it either," she sneers, "I am volunteering, and I'm not afraid of it."

I hope you die in the Games. "Then good for you," I choke out, "Now, even if you mind, I have to go."

I turn around and leave. That Iluma Armin. Sh thinks she can rub it in my face just because she thinks she's better than I am. She's not even full upper class; her eyes are brown, which mean that one of her ancestors was a commoner. She doesn't even fully deserve my respect.

I storm down the road home. Iluma Armin. I might never see her again; I need to get back at her for this. I might seem to overlook a person's mistakes, but mark my words, I will never fully let her go. I've never let anyone get away with anything, and I don't intend to make Iluma an exception. But she's volunteering in a little over a month, and then she'll be out of my grasps. Unless…

I've made up my mind by the time I get home. I drop my stuff off in my room and hurry over to the study. Hesitating, I knock on the mahogany door.

"Come in," my father says.

I open the door.

"What is it?" he says, not looking up from his paperwork.

"Father," I say, "I've changed my mind."

"About what?"

I take a deep breath. "I will volunteer."

 _ **Onyx Avington, 18, District One Male**_

I toss a foot-long knife at the target, hurling it like a small javelin. Sure, some people think that this form of knife-throwing is only for beginners, but it's effective. Spinning it end over end decreases its strength, and it's harder to get a good stick. It's much easier and much more effective to hurl it straight forward.

It hits about a half inch away from the center of the target. That would usually be enough in the Hunger Games—it's the number we're told to aim for—but it's not good enough. Even though pretty much everyone else is gone, I'm staying here until I can reliably hit dead center. Here I go again. Since I don't plan to volunteer, I officially don't need this training, but really, if I mean to remain as a weapon, I have to keep myself in tip-top shape.

I throw another knife, and it barely misses the center dot. Not good enough. And another-

"Rrrrrriiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnggggggggggg!"

That would be my cell phone. I put down the knife and go to the metal bench by the cold blue wall, where my bag—and my phone—is.

I flip it open. "Hello?"

"Hey, Onyx, it's Sterling." My brother.

"Oh," I say, "How was your game? Did District Two whip your butt again?"

He laughs on the other end of the line. "Ha ha, very funny," he says, "And for the record, we won the game."

"I bet," I say, "Why'd you call?"

"I just wanted to make that my observant little brother knew that it's almost nine o'clock and that he'd better get home because his brilliant older brother will be home tonight," he says. I swear he's holding back laughter. "I considered not calling, but I just had to make sure, you know? Of course, you already know this, but-"

"I got it, Sterling," I say cutting him off, "See you at home."

"Hey-"

I snap the phone shut and put it into my bag. After a quick shower, I hop on my bike and ride home. As I pass the Peacekeeper base, some of the white-clad monsters turn their heads to look at me. I don't flinch. They don't know that I burned down their local headquarters and stole their secrets three years ago. They think they're so scary; it was too easy. The security is really easy to get past if you know where to go. That's a part of my job, I guess. At least, my father treats me like a weapon half the time.

My phone rings as I approach the house, and I slow to a stop to pick it up. I'm home anyway.

"Hello?"

"Onyx, it's Alex."

Alex, otherwise known as Alexander Sierra. "Oh, hey."

"Can I come over tonight?" he asks.

"Why?"

"Please."

"Sure," I say, "If you don't mind Sterling in the house, that is. Marvelle also has a few friends over."

"I don't care," he says, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. See you."

I push the bike into its spot and enter the house. It's surprisingly quiet; everyone must be upstairs. Alex takes fifteen minutes to get here, so I have a small chunk of time with nothing to do. I'll cook, I guess. I haven't eaten dinner anyway.

When I check the pantry, the first thing that catches my attention is a box of dried spaghetti noodles. I take it and throw the noodles in hot water to soften. I poke my head into the refrigerator, and I find one last bottle of the base for the sauce, which I made a while back. There are also mushrooms, so I prepare them too. According to the clock, I have five minutes left, so I grab all the materials and toss them in the pot with the strained noodles. I would do it one at a time, but I don't think I have that time. I turn down the fire on the stove to let it simmer.

There's a knock on the door, and I go to let Alex in.

"Hey," I say, "Come on in."

He takes a seat on the couch, and I sit opposite him.

"Thanks for letting me come here on such short notice," he says.

"Anytime," I say.

"I just needed to talk," he says, "I'm so tired of my life. I want to do something. You know, like you did when you burned down the Peacekeeper base. I'm so sick and tired of sitting around doing nothing."

"Makes sense."

"I talked to my dad the other day, and he told me to be patient. According to him, I'll be able to do more for the movement if I lie low until I have power. I completely get it in my head, but it doesn't make me feel any better, you know?"

"Yes."

"And then I found Ava crying last night because she misses Aria, and I got so mad," he says, his hands tightly clenched in fists, "Ava is thirteen. She shouldn't have to deal with losing her older sister. Aria was her example. The d*mn*d Capitol completely broke her when they killed Aria. It's almost like I've lost two sisters. Does this make sense?"

"Yes."

"So I found myself staring at the Justice Building today, " he says, twitching with anger, "And I so wanted to tear it down. I wish I could get into the Capitol and tear it down from inside. I can't hold it in any longer, Onyx. Any longer and I'll burst."

The smell from the pasta is beginning to waft into the room.

"You know what you need?" I say.

"What," he says.

"A good, fresh bowl of pasta," I say, "C'mon, it'll make you feel better."

"What?"

I go to the kitchen, Alex in tow, take some noodles from the pot, and put it into a bowl for him. I place the bowl along with a fork in front of him.

"Here. Eat," I say.

"What about you?"

"I'll eat too," I say, getting some for myself.

"Thanks," he says, looking down at the food and beginning to eat.

Sure enough, by the time he's finished, he's calmed down significantly. He thanks me and leaves.

As I wash the dishes—the maids are done for the day—I mull over what he said. "If only I could get into the Capitol and tear it down fro the inside." That's it. The way to take down the Capitol is to bring it down from within, not fire at it from outside. Alex doesn't have the opportunity, but I do. I was picked to volunteer yesterday. If I made it in, I would be able to start stirring things up from within. This means one thing.

I'm volunteering.

 **Questions (Remember, this is only for you if you don't know what to say. Feel free to completely ignore these):**

 **1\. What do you think of Splendor? How does she compare to the average District One Female? Do you like or dislike her?**

 **2\. How many of you were completely wrong in your expectations of Onyx? Did this surprise you? What do you think of him?**

 **3\. Predictions for both of them?**

 **4\. Which tributes are you waiting for?**

 **5\. Do you hate my long A/Ns? Do you actually read them?**

 **A/N That's it for District One. School starts for me in less than a week, so I may get busy. I'll try my best to get the next chapter out within a week.**

 **See y'all!**

 **~Joseph**


	7. District Two Non-Reaping

**A/N Guess what happened? I'll give you a few lines so you have time to think about it.**

 **-~o~-**

 **-~o~-**

 **-~o~-**

 **You won't guess? Fine, I'll tell you. School happened. Do you know what that means? Yep, you got it, slower chapters. It kind of sucks, but such is life. But on the bright side, District Two is here!**

 **Also, here's a note on Onyx' unconventional weapon. I've done some research, and throwing knives aren't actually as strong as media would have you believe. It takes incredible training just to get the knife to hit with the right side, and even then, there's no guaranteed stick. The knife is also quite small, so it doesn't have enough mass to make it deadly. Even if it does hit, it probably won't be enough to cripple a person. Some of you will say that Clove threw knives, but I personally think that she either threw huge knives (which are better as a weapon) or used smaller knives to slow the opponent down until she could finish him/her off in person.**

 **Yeah, that was a bit long. On to District Two!**

* * *

 _ **Animata Deeksha, 18, District Two Female**_

I look around our relatively bare house. We're not rich at all. I sigh, but I can't keep the straight face. Who effing cares?

Those braggarts from One may laugh at our common, plain surroundings, but they can go shove their frivolous riches up their mouths until they shut up.

I chuckle at myself and finish sweeping the floor. A small house is a lot easier to maintain, anyway. I'd hate to have a huge house and spend all my time cleaning. Where's the fun in that? Even if I do get rich someday, I'm not buying a big house. But if I'm a Victor… well, that's a different story. I'll hire someone to clean it. Or maybe I just won't use half the house.

"Alessandra?" I call to my sister in the other room. "Are you done in there?"

"Yes," she replies, "We're done cleaning. You can go do whatever."

I put the broom in the closet. Done with the house. We didn't even have to clean today; it was her idea. Though she's my twin, she's still technically older by a few minutes. I guess that three-minute difference made her more responsible. But then again, Mom and Dad are always busy. We should help out when we can. Even then, I will never be able to completely pay them back for everything they've given me. All I can do is try, and try I will. That's why I'm going to volunteer. But to do that, I'll need to be training every day. Only the best come out of the Games alive.

I step out into the beautiful spring weather. It's been rainy for the past week, but today, the sky is so blue. It'd be a waste to spend my day indoors…

Okay, change of plans. I'll go to Central City, which is only a ten-minute bus ride from the nearest stops. It's a been a while since I went down there, and it's a perfect place to be in the nice weather as opposed to the freezing cold/burning hot, dark Training Center. Besides, Hadrian and Marius will be there too.

After the short bus ride, I stroll down the sidewalk of Central City. "City" is the wrong term, I guess, for this place. It's more of a bigger town. The gray and brown shops on either side of the street match the beautiful sky, and huge pots filled with tulips and hyacinths brighten up the plain sidewalk. When I return from the Games, I should buy some bulbs. Our family always dismissed them as frivolous things, but beds of tulips, daffodils, hyacinths, and other spring flowers in front of my Victor's home would be nice.

I stop and enter a small store on the street corner, smiling as I look at the trademark yellow and green sign. Marius stands behind the counter, and though he's busy with a group of Capitolites, he glances up and waves. This shop sells trinkets and other jewelry, but unlike the flashy stuff from District One, these are simpler and made of stone or plain metal.

As I wait for Marius, I browse through the shelves, my eyes lighting on two oval, stone pendants. A simple leafy design has been chiseled into the border around plain, flat center, and it doesn't seem to be selling very well. Still, it draws my attention more than the fancier necklaces and bracelets around it. It seems to represent us of Two; we find beauty in the simple things. I take two and wait for the Capitolites to leave. To be honest, they're kind of annoying, always squawking and jabbering as if they didn't have a care in the world. I would plug my ears like my two-year-old cousin does if I weren't eighteen years old.

Finally, the shop clears out, and I approach the counter.

"Aren't you supposed to be training?" he asks.

"I couldn't resist the weather," I say, "The Training Academy doesn't feel right for a day like this. Anyway, I'd like to buy these."

"Are you just trying to make me feel better?" he says.

"What?"

"I handmade those," he says, slightly sheepishly. He scratches the back of his neck. "I'm still not very good at it."

"I had no idea!" I say, "Don't say that. You can't only look at your mistakes if you want to improve."

"I guess."

"And I still want them," I say, "Can you engrave an "A" into the center part? For both of them, of course."

"Sure," he says, "If you don't mind waiting, that is. It'll take two days."

"Sounds good."

He gives a price, and I pay for the pendants.

"I'm going to visit Hadrian. You want to come?" I say.

"I wish I could," he says, "But I'm manning the shop by myself. I can't go anywhere."

"I'll see you later, then," I say. He says goodbye, and I leave the shop.

After this, I exit the touristy part of Central City and enter the business side. Huge warehouses line the cold, gray roads, holding steel, iron and other metals that District Two manufactures. The actual refineries and mines are a few miles west of here, though, and the quarries are to the north. It's surprising how many people still only think of stone when they think of District Two. We're much more than that.

I look up, and the sign tacked onto the warehouse has "Ryker's" written on it in a plain, bold, font. This is where Hadrian is most of the time; his family owns this place. When I walk in, the cold air sends a chill down my spine. It's always freezing in here.

"Hey!" Hadrian calls, coming out of the office room that sits in the corner of the warehouse. He's wearing a neon yellow shirt I've never seen him wear, and to be perfectly honest, it looks terrible.

I smile. "Are you sure you can't turn up the temperature in here? It's like you own a huge freezer."

He laughs. "It's a freezer I'm used to. Why aren't you training today?"

"The weather's too nice," I say.

"Try that excuse in the Games," he says, his eyes twinkling. " 'Oh, I'm sorry. I can't fight today. The weather's too nice. Come again tomorrow.' "

"Shut up!" I say, laughing. "You're imitations are terrible. That one was almost as bad as your shirt!"

"What's wrong with my shirt?" he says, "I _like_ neon yellow."

"No wonder you don't have a girlfriend," I say.

"It's not like you're much better," he says, "You scare away all the boys with your steel fingernails." Many years back, Alessandra and I got our fingernails replaced with steel nails. They also double as convenient weapons.

"Hey, I _like_ my nails," I say, playfully poking him with my index finger, "Even so, I don't have to cut them anymore."

"Whatever," he says with a big grin on his face. "You should go train."

I check the time, and I've spent the entire morning. "You're right," I say, "I'll see you later."

"Bye."

 _ **Slate Valor, 18, District Two Male**_

I stare at the no-longer-blank piece of paper, rereading my work.

 _No one sees; no one knows_

 _Not even the one himself_

 _Lies lived out, till nothing shows_

 _Of the one that hides behind_

 _Concealed so well, buried so long ago_

 _That everyone forgets_

 _That beneath the face of plaster lies the face of a man_

It's definitely not my best work; I penned it on an impulse. I almost want to toss it, but something inside me urges me to keep it. I'll improve it later when I can get a fresh perspective on it. I look over to the drawer that holds all my drafts. After I write anything, I need to give it time. That almost always helps me gain a new perspective on things.

"Slate!" my father booms from the other side of the house.

Oh gosh, I have to hurry. He's coming this way. I stuff the papers as well as the pencil into the drawer and get away from my desk. I hope he doesn't notice. "Yes, father?"

"What are you doing here?" he demands, "You should be training. The ceremony is within a week. You have no excuse to be here. Even your sister's there."

"Yes, father."

"You're getting weak. When I was your age…" I don't pay attention to the rest of his frustrated speech. I know what's going on, so it should be okay. As long as he can't tell I'm not listening, I'm fine. He talks every time about how great he was and how honorable he was and how many kills he got in his Games and how he even changed his last name to reflect that. Yep, he changed his last name. It's a problem for the rest of us because honestly, what person's last name is naturally "Valour"? It just doesn't work.

"You hear me?" he says.

"Yes, father," I say, leaving my room. There's nothing I can do except obey. Believe it or not, he's still stronger than I am.

I go to the Training Academy, but before I enter, I glare at the bold sign that labels this building as the training grounds for the Hunger Games. I used to only be here every afternoon, but now, I'm here mornings and afternoons. It's because my lame excuse for a brother chickened out and didn't volunteer. He always only had his eyes on the girls, only training to catch the eyes of girls that'll cheat on him anyway. Whatever would've happened, because he's too old for the Games now, my father pins all his hopes on me.

I growl as I shove my way through the glass double doors. When I come back from the Games, I'll show him. I grab a bow and fire an arrow into the heart of a dummy.

That was too impulsive. I drop the bow and frantically look around the room as the _twack_ from the bow echoes around the room. No one saw that. No one can report this back to my father. He'd kill me if he caught me doing this merely two weeks before I volunteer. I gingerly place the bow back on its rack and pick up a spear. I hurl it into the target, but it doesn't have the same satisfying thud as an arrow does. It feels practiced, fake, not natural as it should. Once I get into the Games, there's nothing that can keep me from doing what I want.

What I want. I can't imagine what that's like. It can only be good.

When I go to the water fountain to refill my bottle, I hear a soft sniffling coming from the female bathroom. My eyes shoot to the front door. Did someone see me with the bow? No one has entered since I got here, so whoever it is must've been here for a while.

"Hello?" I venture, "Who's there?"

No response. The sniffling stops.

"I can hear you," I say, "Who's there?"

"Slate?" It's Amshu, my younger sister. My father did say that she was here.

"Amy?" I call, "Father's not here."

"Are… are you sure?" she replies, her voice trembling.

"I'm sure."

She peeks her head out. After looking around and seeing that the coast is clear, she runs into my arms and buries her head in my chest.

"What happened?" I ask.

"F- Father," she says, looking up and taking a deep breath before unleashing a river of words, "He was holding a knife and he said that he would kill Mom and then he said he'd kill me if I didn't come-"

"When was this!?" No one told me.

"When you were gone this morning with Karan. And then he started getting close to Mom and I ran and I don't know what happened and… and…"

"Breathe," I say, "Catch your breath."

She gulps down a few big breaths of air.

"And what?" I ask.

"And I- I- I'm scared." She bursts into tears.

"It'll be okay," I say, "I have to volunteer, and when I win, I'll make sure you and Mom don't have to stay with him anymore."

She sniffles, pulling herself back together. "Okay."

"C'mon. We've been here long enough. Let's go home."

"Are you sure that it's safe?"

"It's all good now," I say, "Mom is okay."

"O- Okay."

She goes back into the bathroom to wash her face, and she comes back smiling.

"By the way," she says as we leave the Academy, "You're really good with that bow."

"Don't you ever tell Father."

"I won't."

It's actually a really nice day out in District Two, one of those days where it's warm outside but not too hot. There's a light breeze, and it's partly cloudy overhead. It's a great day. However, the moment he enters the house in Victor's Village, it's as if a dark shadow covered the sun—my father's overbearing presence. They say he wasn't right in the head when he first volunteered for the Games. I wholeheartedly believe it. My mom pokes her head into the hallway to see who just came in, and her somber face breaks into a smile. Amy runs to her and hugs her, squeezing her as if she'd never see Mom ever again. Such is the reality in my house.

I often wish I was born into a poorer family. The money here is nice, but it's not worth the monster that comes with it. It's not worth constantly fearing for my family's life. And, it's definitely not worth living a lie for it, trying to be hard and rough just to meet my father's standards. It isn't me and it never will be me. If only he could see this…

When I win, I'll make him see.

* * *

 **Questions:**

 **1\. Do you have any thoughts on Animata? How does she line up with your expectations?**

 **2\. How do you feel about Slate? Does his last name make more sense now? Did you expect this?**

 **3\. Predictions?**

 **4\. Do y'all mind this different updating schedule?**

 **A/N Here's a note for predictions. Remember that it's possible for any combination of the trained tributes (1, 2, 7, 10) to band together. The Inner District Alliance and Outer District Alliance are the two most common combinations, but other alliances are just as likely, from one huge Trained Alliance to everyone on their own.**

 **My goal is to update within a week. We'll see.**

 **See y'all!**

 **~Joseph**


	8. District Three Non-Reaping

**A/N Yay! Another chapter! And I only took six days!**

 **Anyway, here's a note on Animata from District Two. There are a lot of things that people got wrong (read: not showing something doesn't mean it doesn't exist), but the only one I want to address right now is that she is "bitter." There's a difference between being bitter and having strong opinions.**

 **I sound so defensive… Sorry. It's my bad as the author for making things unclear.**

 **I'm also going to start using the dividers; one of y'all said it looks cleaner. I've been meaning to do it, but I keep forgetting.**

 **Here's District Three.**

* * *

 _ **Render Axum, 17, District Three Male**_

I nail the thin board to the wall, covering the hole in the old, rotting boards. Someday, this wall will have to go, but I'll keep it as long as I can. There's no use spending extra money.

Besides, things will be better in a few years. Every single one of the recent government policies has been good for us, so I imagine that is President Romulus Snow keeps himself alive, we should all be fine. First, it was the raise of the minimum wage, and then it was the creation of more government jobs, such as cleaning the streets or waste management. Of course, no one _likes_ those jobs, but they pay well enough for an unemployed person. Now there are rumors that they're ending the Hunger Games.

Someone knocks on the door.

"Come in," I call, tilting my head so I can hear better. My father steps into my room, and my entire body tenses up. "Dad."

"Hey," he says, slightly awkwardly, "I was thinking that you know, we should spend some time together. Make up for lost time?"

"Again?" It didn't go so well last time. Nothing bad happened, but we just sat there and stared at each other. It's not exactly an experience I want to relive.

"It didn't have to be a one-time thing."

"Umm…" What to say… what to say... "Like… what were you thinking, exactly?"

He stops and thinks about it for a bit.

"You know what," he says, "You're probably busy, so maybe another time."

He briskly walks out of the room and closes the door. I sigh. He can't expect me to just welcome him with open arms now that he has a job close to home. I saw him once a year for the first sixteen years of my life, and he expects me to act like nothing wrong ever happened? In my brain, I know that I shouldn't be so cold, but it's hard to be close to your dad when you barely know him. Even now, he's gone almost all day six out of seven days of the week, and he goes out on the seventh. Talk about a lot of bonding time.

I clean up my tools, but when I enter the living room, my dad looks up from his newspaper and stares at me. I stare at him. We both look away. If my mom were here, she'd try to get us to talk, but she's out of the house running errands. Maybe I'll take a walk. Admenta usually goes to her afternoon shift at this time of day; maybe I'll see her. Maybe I'll talk to her. Maybe she won't walk away this time.

I put on a thin jacket and leave the house. It's a little windy today, but now, trash isn't blowing everywhere because waste management came through yesterday. I walk briskly down the street. I hope I don't miss her today. I'll walk a little faster. I turn a corner into the slightly nicer part of town, where the houses are sturdier and the walls don't rot. As I pass a house with red brick steps, I notice that the upstairs light is still on. She must still be inside. I stop and squint, but I can't make out anything through the curtain.

Seriously, Render, that was stupid. What if someone comes out and sees you staring at the house? What'll they think? I jerk away from the house and continue walking.

After a few minutes, I turn around. I know she goes down this road. Maybe she's left her house. I quickly walk back and see that the light in the window is still on. Does she even work today?

Maybe I'll go home. I take a last look at the window just as the light disappears. She must be coming. I run back a few yards and pretend that I was just walking by. The door opens and Admenta steps out before closing the door and locking it. She turns to walk to work.

"Oh, hey," I call.

She turns to see who it is, but she turns back and doesn't reply.

I run to catch up to her. "Hey," I say, again. Was that awkward?

"What do you want?" she says, "I'm not falling for you, you know." She turns up her nose. " _Some_ people are below me. Now get out of my way. I need to get to work."

She walks away quickly, and I let her go. There's no use chasing after her. It didn't work last time. But maybe it'll work this time.

Someone calls behinds me.

"Hey! Render!"

"What?" It's Cerulean, her brother.

He catches up to me. "Did she plow right through you again?"

I stare at the ground.

"That's a yes," he says, "Look, you need to let her go. She's a rude, ignorant b*tch, and you deserve better."

"Thanks for the sentiment," I say, "But I can't just let her go, can I?"

He plays with his fingers. "Well… this is a special case. She's intent on finding someone 'better' than you. And I know you hate giving up on anything, but listen to me. Just let her go and save yourself some heartbreak."

"It just doesn't feel right."

"I know it doesn't, but c'mon, there are hundreds of better girls out there. Don't waste your time on my sister."

I sigh. "But what's wrong with me? What is it about me that she doesn't like? Is it that I'm half-deaf?"

"No," he says, "It's nothing to do with you. She seems to think that only rich people are worth anything in this world."

I tap my foot, unsure of how to reply. There has to be some good in her, no one is completely bad.

"Well, thanks for the advice," I say.

"You're not convinced."

"No, I'm not, but thanks anyway."

He sighs. "You're so stubborn."

I just shrug.

 _ **Apple Kesari, 17, District Three Female**_

I screw another bolt onto the piece of metal that will become a refrigerator somewhere down the line. Then I do it again to the next one and the next one. It's not a fun job, but working at this assembly pays well with the new benefits. I've heard that they raised the prices for our goods in the Capitol; that means we get paid more. It also means that the Capitol isn't thinking about bombing us.

Bombs.

Pictures fill my mind of bombs falling, people screaming, buildings burning, and finally, my father facing the wall, held by Peacekeepers and shot, his blood splattering the wall.

Calm down, calm down, calm down. If I were at home, I'd look at my paintings to quiet myself, but at work, I don't have that option. I have to do it myself.

The Capitol isn't out to get us. The Capitol is generous to us. I repeat these sentences like a mantra, shutting the pictures out of my mind. I have nothing to fear. Since we're not resisting the Capitol, it's helping us. Just look at our raises. The number of homeless people has plummeted. If the Capitol were trying to destroy us, it wouldn't be helping us. They bombed us before, but that was because we rebelled. That should've been expected.

"Psst," someone whispers. Startled, I drop the bolt in my hand onto the conveyor belt. I scramble to get it back. "Hey, Apple." It's Leda, standing a yard or two to my left.

We're not allowed to talk at work. This might get us in trouble. I look at her and shush her. She rolls her eyes.

"Shh," I repeat.

"C'mon," she says, still whispering. "It'll be fine. It's too boring if we don't talk."

I screw another bolt and reply. "We'll get in trouble," I hiss.

"It's okay," she says. I hear Archie, working across from her, snicker. I go back to my job, ignoring her. Finally, Mr. Escalt, the supervisor for today, walks by, shutting Leda up.

After the end of our shift, Leda, Archie and I meet outside.

"What was that all about?" I say.

"I got bored," Leda replies.

"Bored?! That's not a reason to break the rules. If Ms. Scrift was the supervisor today, you'd be fined!"

"She wasn't here today," she says, "So it's okay."

"But the Capitol sees everything."

"Do you think it cares?"

I sigh. "Archie, tell her that what she did was stupid."

"It was stupid," he says, "It made it a little less boring, though."

"You too?" I say. "Fine, but next time, don't talk to me during work. I can't afford to get a pay cut."

We walk in silence for a few minutes.

"Sorry," Leda says, "I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's fine," I say. We've reached the bar where I work as a waitress after my shift at the factory. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I loop around to the back of the bar and enter through the back door. After quickly changing into the uniform, I begin taking orders in the dim-lit room. Most bars in Three are quite run down and dirty, but this place is a little higher class. This is usually where Peacekeepers, officials, and well-to-do people go for drinks, and I would never have gotten a job here if Archie hadn't pulled a few strings for me.

I put on a smile and go to the first table, where a group of men and women in tuxedos are sitting. They're definitely government, and if I had a guess, they just got off work and decided to go out to eat. Further conversation tells me that I'm not wrong; I'm sure I've seen them around before. I know everyone that comes here to some extent.

After a while, a man in Peacekeeper whites holding his helmet comes in and sits at a table in the corner. My body still involuntarily tenses up when I see his uniform, and I remind myself that he's not here to hurt anybody. He doesn't look familiar, though. He must be one of the new ones that were sent here two weeks ago. Usually, new Peacekeepers are sort of a wild card; you never know what they'll do to you. I've often seen them yelling at servers; the ones from District Two tend to be mean like that. Some from the Capitol are so picky about everything; they're a pain but they tip well. I take a deep breath and muster my courage. Here goes nothing.

"Hello," I say, "Welcome. I'm Apple, and I'll be your server."

He looks at the menu as well as the list of drinks before settling on a glass of hard cider and a basket of fried potatoes. Whew. That wasn't so bad. He seems okay.

Minutes later, when I bring him his food, I find him staring at the wall.

"Thanks," he says. That's rare for new Peacekeepers. Most of them are either too proud or too lost in this place. He seems to be Capitol, but his accent is really light.

"Are you new in District Three?" I ask. I hope he doesn't mind. I don't think he will.

"Huh?" he says, "Pardon me. What did you say?"

"I… just wanted to know if you were new here."

"Oh, yes," he says.

"Are you from the Capitol?" I ask.

"Yes," he says, "And no. I'm from the Capitol, but my family was originally from here."

"Really?" I say. I didn't know that these people existed in the Capitol. I always assumed that everyone there was always from there.

"Yes," he says, smiling for the first time, "I'm sorry, I'm a little tense. I'm Velleius."

"Nice to meet you," I say, "If you need anything while you're still here, just wave me over."

I move on. He seems like a father. I don't think I've ever thought of Capitolites that way.

After a few hours, I finally get to go home. As I walk up the creaky, wooden steps to my room upstairs, I can barely keep my eyes open. I flick the light switch, turning on the single light bulb. My paintings cover the wall. Green meadows run across the wooden walls, and an unmoving orchard sits in the corner. Looking at all of it calms me down, reminding me that the Capitol isn't out to get me. I lay down on my bed and close my eyes.

I hope no one rebels.

* * *

 **Questions:**

 **1\. What do you think of Render? Keep in mind that I haven't revealed everything about all the characters. Do you like him? How do you think he'll be developed?**

 **2\. What about Apple? Do you like her? How does her personality compare to standard District Three tributes? What about other tributes in general?**

 **3\. Predictions?**

 **4\. Did you notice my hints to the overall plot in this chapter?**

 **5\. Do y'all remember Velleius? It's only been a few chapters.**

* * *

 **A/N We need 12 more reviews to reach 100 reviews! C'mon guys! So pumped!**

 **Also, District Four is next! Get ready to get wet! You know, because it's fishin, and fishing means water...**

 **...that was cheesy. Or should I say, "fishy." :) Do I sound hyper at all?**

 **See y'all,**

 **~Joseph**


	9. District Four Non-Reaping

**A/N Another late chapter… Sorry. It really was almost done Friday, but I got busy Saturday and didn't finish it then. Here's District Four!**

 _ **Harbor Douglas, 17, District Four Female**_

"C'mon," Wade commands, "Now."

I back towards the wall as he takes unbuttons his shirt. "Y- You don't own me," I say, trying to hold a steady voice.

He smirks. "Really? I believe I've _paid_ for this."

"N- No," I stutter, "This wasn't the deal. I never agreed to this."

He just laughs and throws off his shirt. I shudder. He's blocking the door, my only hope of escape. I don't even know why I thought it would be a good idea to come back. He does pay the most, but is it really worth the abuse? In the past, I've given in, but I'm done. Something has to change, and if he won't, I will. He begins to unbutton his jeans. I need to move fast. I take a deep breath and make a mad dash towards the shadowy kitchen lying off to the side of the room.

"You can run," he says, "But you can't run forever."

I grit my teeth to keep myself from speaking. He only gets pleasure from my fear, screaming, and pain. I slowly step backward into the dark corner where he keeps his pots and pans. As he approaches, I reach into the old, creaky cabinet.

Nothing. I glance inside, and it's empty. D*mn*t. What do I do? A chill runs down my spine as he smiles and advances, a hungry grin on his face. I have to find something, anything. If he gets close to me, he'll overpower me. It's happened too many times before.

It's too late for a plan. He's only a few feet away. I grab the first thing I can get my hands on—a bag of sugar— and throw it at him. While he fumbles with it, I dart past him. He grabs my jacket. I rip it off of me and run out the door into the chilly spring weather.

My eyes dart around the street. There aren't many people out right now, but a few people turn their heads and stare at me when they see that I'm barely dressed. It doesn't take smarts to know what they're thinking. Whatever, there's no time. I run as fast as I can away from this place. I won't let him get me this time. I won't let him control me again. I won't. I can't. I crash into Hudson's—my neighbor's—door and steady myself, catching my breath before pounding on the door. It's really cold out here. Hudson, where are you...

The door creaks open, and he lets me into his house.

"Harbor!" he says, closing the door behind me, "What happened?"

I take a deep breath. "I went back," I say, slowly regaining confidence, "I never should've done that."

"Why would you do that?" he says, his face twisting into a mix of surprise and disgust, "I thought you weren't ever going back. "

"That's what I thought… But I did it anyway."

"What is it that you want from _him_? I understand you going back to other guys, but why _him_?"

"I don't know," I confess, "I really don't know."

I stare at his dirty floor for a few moments. _You are strong,_ I tell myself. _You've always been. Most people don't mess with you. They know who you are. Keep your chin up and move on. No one else has to know._

"Are you okay?" he says.

"Yeah," I say, "I am now. I should probably leave you alone before some girl comes looking for you and sees you like this. Hudson Anatolli caring?"

He laughs. "I guess I do have a reputation to keep."

Suddenly, there's a clatter outside his window. Someone—or something—just fell. My heart sinks. Someone squeals.

"Your windows are really thin, right?" I say.

He realizes what I'm thinking. "Oh…"

It must be Marina. I should've known she was snooping. Of course, she'll go tell mom now, and mom will yell at me when I go home. Such a welcoming prospect. "Can I borrow a jacket?" I say.

"Sure," he says, going to the closet. He pulls out a leather jacket. "Here."

"Thanks." I put it on. It's a little big, but it's okay. "I'll give it back to you later."

"Okay. Bye."

"Bye."

I leave his house. The sun is going down, and a cold wind blows in the streets. I pull the jacket tighter and walk down the streets.

"Hey!" a guy calls. I vaguely remember him paying me for my services before, but I can't remember his name. "Slut!"

"Shut that f***ing trap of yours," I shout back.

"Wh-"

"And I don't want to hear it!" I shout at him before I turn a corner. I'm not even sure where I'm going. I don't care where I go as long as it's not home. I walk past the docks, where a guy and his girl are sitting. I don't think I know either of them.

I wander the streets and alleys for about an hour. At this point, the stars are fully out, and my stomach is rumbling. I know I have to go home, even if I don't want to, so I approach the house. A light shines from the kitchen. My mom?

Before I go in, I take another deep breath. If she screams at me tonight, I won't let it get to me. I will remain calm and silent. With this in mind, I enter my house. The central room is empty, but I hear my mom in the kitchen. She comes out to see who it is.

"Why were you out so late?" she says.

"Oh, I was out with friends," I say, faking a smile. It's not _completely_ false, though. Besides, Marina only saw me at Hudson's house.

"Then why were you with Wade Irving?"

I curse under my breath. Marina saw that too. I grit my teeth and will myself not to reply. It'll only make things worse.

"Harbor, you are a disgrace to our family!" she says. "Your father and I have worked long and hard for what? A slut!"

I purse my lips.

"That's all you are! You are nothing more than a dirty slut! We've spent the past ten years breaking our backs for you, and this is what you do?"

"You've worked _hard_ for us?" I spit. Whoops. It's too late now. "You never cared about us! All you ever want to do is work. You never spent the slightest amount of time with us. It's all about the money, isn't it?"

I turn and stomp away from her into the room I share with Marina. She sticks her tongue out at me. The nerve… I almost slap her. I slam down onto the bed with my face to the pillow. Next time, I won't let her push my buttons like that. Next time, I will win.

 _ **Delmar Martin Jr., 17, District Four Male**_

I sit on the dock after my shift at the fish hatchery and watch the waves crash against the rocky shore. Contrary to popular belief, most of District Four's shoreline is actually rocks, not wide-open beaches as many would like to think. Edlin, sitting beside me, yanks the fishing rod and reels it in, bringing up a foot-long sardine. Also contrary to popular belief, we're allowed to fish for ourselves. It's not like we're forced to buy the fish we eat. Only rich people do that, and I can't name many in Four that are rich. I know Victor's and the officials are pretty well-to-do, but what person in his right mind would buy something he could easily get for free?

Edlin unhooks the fish and tosses it into his bag.

"That's the fourth one?" I say.

"Yeah," he says, "But it'd be so much easier if we were allowed spears and boats. This fishing rod business is slow."

I shrug. "It's not that bad, is it?"

"I could have four to five times what I have now if I were spear fishing." He sighs. "When the Capitol finally cracks down on the rebels, we'll be doing fine."

I don't reply. Sure, that may be true, but being completely free sounds good too. Is it? I don't say anything.

He continues. "Just look at all the other districts. One, two, Seven, Ten. Even Six and Eleven. Pretty much everyone is getting raises and benefits because they've stopped trying to overthrow the Capitol and play along."

That's also true. Aye… why is life so hard? If only these decisions were black and white…

Across the harbor, on the rebel side of the district, smoke rises, swirling and dancing in the wind. It's another one of their ceremonies.

Edlin huffs and spits. "Whaddya say? We go over and blow up the rebel headquarters. You still remember how to make bombs, right?"

"What?!"

"Yeah. Show them that they're being destructive to Panem-"

"Just like we will be if we burn down half of the district," I interrupt, "Remember? Our goal is to get back into the Capitol's favor. How is destroying stuff going to help?"

He sighs. "True, true. I just can't stand sitting here, watching the rebels continue to destroy our lives."

"All we can do is keep supporting the Capitol, I guess. If we try to take down the rebels, there will always be more."

"Once again, true."

I watch the smoke swirl and dissipate. "After everything," I say, "All I want is peace."

"Which isn't possible unless we get rid of the rebels," Edlin says.

I sigh. Honestly, I don't really care who has the upper hand as long as the district is united again, but that'll never happen. The Capitol is too big and too strong, but the rebels are like roaches. There will always be some left, no matter how many you kill.

The sun is beginning to go down. "I should go home," I say, "For dinner. My dad'll think I'm with the rebels or something if I'm out too late."

"Okay," he says, standing up, "I'm pretty much done here too. I'll see you tomorrow."

I watch the position of the sun. If I don't hurry, I'll be late, and it won't be pretty. It's quite a long way, too, especially since I have to loop around the rebel part of town. Of course… I could always take a shortcut.

That's it. It'll save at least ten minutes of walking, and besides, what's the worse that could happen? I used to live there before we moved; people know me. It's not like I'll get mugged or anything.

When I'm sure Edlin isn't watching, I turn down the road that'll bring me through a rebel part of town. As my feet crunch on the gravel road, I look around at the streets where I used to play. The rock where I broke my arm so many years ago is still there. Of course, my arm has healed, but the memories are still here. And…

"Is that you, Delmar?"

Oh… gosh. Here we go again. I turn around to see Dewy Harren, waving and catching up to me.

"It's been a long time," I say, half-smiling. He talks while we walk.

"It's been way too long," he says, "I've heard about everything you do with Dorsal and Edlin and all that loyal crap, but you're still one of us."

"Uh, thanks?"

"Of course! You grew up here. Hey! You know what? Do you want to come over for dinner? We'd love to have you over. It'll be the old times."

"I'm… kinda in a hurry," I say, looking around. My house is in sight from here, and if my dad sees me with Dewy, I'll have a lot of explaining to do. "I, uh, I'll see you later."

"Sure! Bye!"

I hurry away only to see my dad standing in the window, watching me with crossed arms with _that look_ in his eyes. I sigh and enter the house.

He looks at me. "What were you doing with the Harren kid?"

"I wasn't doing anything," I say, "He caught me in the area."

"And why were you in the area in the first place?"

"I was trying to get home on time, okay?"

"Okay," he says, sighing, "but don't associate with them again, okay? Don't go through their streets. Don't talk to them."

"Dad-"

"I'm doing this for your own good," he says. "Trust me, I know how you feel, but-"

"Yeah, yeah. The scars. I know," I interrupt, "Dad. I know. You don't need to shove it down my throat every day."

"I'm just trying to protect you!" His voice level goes up a notch.

"I don't need you to protect me! You aren't even in my life most of the time; what makes you think you can just waltz in and control me?"

"Delmar-"

"No, Dad!" I yell. I stop to catch my breath and run out of the house. Why is life so hard? Everything in District Four is so messed up. All this hate between the loyalists and the rebels — why is this even here? Why isn't there a right answer? I run to the only place in the entire District where there's any calm or peace.

I sit down on the dock where Edlin and I were fishing earlier today.

The ocean. It's always the same. The rolling waves always create the same rushing noise, no matter what goes on in the district. Whatever happens to Four, the ocean will be here for me.

I hear footsteps behind me, so I turn my head to see.

"I thought you'd be here," she says. Lynne, Edlin's sister, sits down beside me. "When I went to your house, your dad said that you were out."

"I'm sorry," I say, "I just had to get out."

"Sick of everything?"

"Yeah," I say, "I can't tell which side to choose. Both the Capitol and the rebels seem right."

"I know how that feels," she says. "Edlin's so firm with the Capitol, but sometimes, the rebels seem like they have a point."

I look back over the wide expanse of watery darkness. "I wish I could be neutral. Everything here is so polarized. Why?" A chilly wind begins to blow, and I wrap my arms around her.

"I don't know," she says. "But maybe things are getting ready to change."

 **Questions:**

 **1\. What do you think of Harbor? Is it positive or negative? How will her backstory affect her performance in the Games?**

 **2\. How did he line up with you initial thoughts from the blog? Do you like him? How will he react to the Games?**

 **3\. Any other Predictions? What roles will they play?**

 **4\. Will y'all bug me if I don't get the next chapter out by next Sunday?**

 **I'm serious about the bugging me. Please do that.**

 **AND WE'RE OVER 100 REVIEWS! THANK Y'ALL SO MUCH!**

 **Soo... I need to sleep because I have school tomorrow morning...**

 **See y'all,**

 **~Joseph**


	10. District Five Non-Reaping

**A/N I'm early! Yay! My life is getting busy, though, my writing time is becoming more and more limited. I'll still try to update once a week, though.**

 **I only got 8 reviews. That's a low for this story. Am I doing something wrong?**

 **Here's District Five.**

* * *

 _ **Raffaella Silva, 17, District Five Female**_

My eyes wander over the murals on the bedroom wall. Luna's work is so perfect; I can't find a single flaw in it. This is something that I will never understand. How does she find the beauty and the inspiration in a place like this? If anything, she should be the most negative, yet she manages to see what I cannot see. Her beautiful flowers—how does she know what they even look like? The most I've ever seen are a few dandelions. She's always so strong and so positive.

I go down the stairs as the bell tower a few blocks down strikes eight. My shift doesn't start until this afternoon, so I've got a bit of sits on the couch, deep in thought. I'll go make breakfast. Quickly, I scramble an egg and toast some bread.

"Raffi?" she calls, "Please, don't bo-"

I run back over to her and gently push her back down on the couch. She doesn't need to be working; she'll hurt herself.

"Just because I'm going blind doesn't mean I can't find myself breakfast," she says, "I can still see enough to get around."

I'm already finished. I place the plate in front of her and give her a fork.

"Well, thank you," she says.

I smile.

As I watch her eat, it hurts. My strong, sweet older sister, reduced to this? She can't even work or paint anymore. Painting was her life. With that gone, it seems like part of her is gone. And with that, part of me is gone, too.

When she she finishes, I take her plate and wash it as the doorbell rings. I hear Luna getting up, but I run back and make her sit down.

"Oh come on, Raffi," she says, but I ignore that. I open the front door, where Daniel is waiting.

"Good morning," he says, coming in. He sits beside Luna and gives her a hug. "Good morning, sunshine."

"Good morning!" Luna says, her face lighting up. "Shouldn't you be on your way to work?"

"It's fine," he says, "I'll go by the market today, so I wanted to know if you guys needed anything."

"Umm…" Luna says, thinking, "I'm not sure. Raffi?"

"Dozen eggs," I say. Eggs are the only real source of protein we have, other than the jerky, which is reserved for emergencies.

"Okay," he says, writing a quick note.

"Now get to work," Luna says, "I don't want you to get in trouble with your boss."

"Okay," he says, giving her a quick peck on the cheek, "I'll see you later."

The doorbell rings again. Who would it be? No one other than Daniel ever comes by.

A guy in Peacekeeper whites, who can't be much older than I am, stands at the door, holding his helmet in his left hand. That's usually a good sign. It means he's not here for any trouble. "Is this is Silva residence?" he says.

I nod.

"Dante Silva was in an accident," he says. Dante. My fourteen-year-old brother. "He's in the Sector Four hospital right now. I'm very sorry."

I look back at Daniel, who nods.

"Go," he says, "I can stay with Luna. You need this."

I slip into my shoes and dash past the Peacekeeper into the street. We live on the border between Sector Three and Sector Four, so the hospital isn't far away. I sprint down the roads, heading for the hospital. The streets begin to blend together in my mind; my focus is on one thing: find Dante. Is he okay? He better be okay. I don't know how much more I can take.

I barge into the double-doors, my eyes darting around the room. The door to the side leads to the patients, and without a second thought, I go for it.

A man stops me. "Excuse me miss, but only family is allowed."  
I want to scream at him, yell at him, tell him that _Dante is my freaking brother_ , but the words don't come.

"S- S- Sil- va," I pant, my voice barely audible, "Br- Broth-"

He gets the point and lets me go. "Room 114," he says.

Got it. My eyes scan the labeled placards. 114. 114. Ah, got it. I nearly break the door in my rush to get in, and I kneel beside the bed where my brother lies.

He turns his head. "Raffi," he says, smiling, "You're here."

I grab him into a hug and squeeze him tightly, my eyes moist.

"Careful," the nurse says, "The explosion he was in was severe. He has a broken leg, but that should be fixed soon. His hearing may be permanently damaged. The left ear cannot hear as of now, and his right ear is 47% deaf."

Deaf? Deaf! Shaking, I squeeze him tighter with my head on his chest as the tears overflow.

"Come on, sis," he says, "It's not that bad. It's deaf-initely something to remember."

Jokes. I run out of the room and stand in the hallway, crying.

"Is everything alright?" I look up and see Daniel, coming up to me. "Luna told me to come."

I shake my head. Things could not be more wrong. I begin to hyperventilate, and I struggle to choke down the sobs.

"Calm down," he says, "Deep breaths."

I try to gulp down air, but I end up unleashing a new wave of tears.

"Can you talk about it?"

I shake my head again. Words don't work. Even if I wanted to, words aren't forming in my head. Speaking only makes it worse.

"Please, it'll make you feel better."

I shake my head again, sobs escaping from my mouth. My life is falling apart.

Daniel puts an arm around my shoulders and stands with me until I have no more tears to cry. I look him in the eyes and say a silent thank you, and though no words are exchanged, I think he understands.

"Do you want to go back in? You kinda left him abruptly."

I nod and slowly enter the room again. Dante is sleeping now, a thin smile on his face. You and Luna have always taken care of me. Now, it's my turn to take care of you.

 _ **Aaron Aileen Jr., 18, District Five Male**_

I finish the last bit of the turkey sandwich and stuff the plastic bag in my pocket. I'll rinse it out and recycle it when I get home. With the new recycling initiative, we get fined for throwing away recyclables. I sit back down on the park bench, Annora at my side. Most sectors of District Five don't have parks, but as Sector One is the richest one, we have a few extra benefits.

"Here are the books you asked for," she says, handing me several of her old textbooks. Though my dad won't let me continue with higher education, I'll learn as much as I can.

"Thanks," I say, flipping through one on electrical engineering. I can barely understand what I'm reading, but I'll get there. "I don't know what I do without you."

She smiles. Gosh, that's cute. "Why is your dad so insistent on you being a peacekeeper? I mean, your grades in school were good enough to apply for the Capitol university here."

I shrug and sigh. "That's my dad," I say, "I don't understand him either. He knows I saw him execute my mom because of his job, and he still expects for me to admire and like it."

"But that wastes so much of your potential. Can't he see that?"

"Nope," I say, leaning back on the bench, "He's got the idea that I'm going to be a peacekeeper stuck in his head, and he doesn't change his mind."

"That's so sad."

"I guess. I could be worse off, though."

The bell tower chimes. 1 PM.

"I have to get going," I say, "I can't be late for duty."

"Okay. Will you be available tomorrow, same time?"

"Sure. I'll bring you all my questions on the reading."

"Glad to help," she says, her face breaking into a huge smile. I resist the urge to give her a quick peck on the cheek. That'd be awkward for both of us, as much as I want it. So, I settle for a side hug and hurry off. One day, I'll tell her how much I love her. It's just not today.

I pass the sign that tells me I'm leaving Sector One into Sector Three, which borders us on the east side. There's an immediate change; the road looks the same, but the buildings become more run down. I see a window boarded over, probably because the owner doesn't have the money to buy glass.

I turn a corner into the heart of Sector Three, where the homeless stay. The Capitol hasn't done anything about them yet, but I hope changes are coming. I get that they're trying up there in City Circle somewhere in the Capitol, but they haven't made the changes that really matter. For now, I can wait.

I avoid looking into the eyes of the beggars on the side of the road. I only have two dollars on me, and if I give some to one, the rest will jump me. I'm not weak, but I can't deal with twenty men when I'm unarmed.

I navigate my way through the heaps of trash until I've cut through the center. The streets are empty once again.

I hear the patter of a child's feet behind me.

"Mister? Could you spa-"

I turn my head and see a little girl dressed in torn rags. She can't be more than nine years old. However, when I turn, her face scrunches up in fear and backs off.

"Hey!" I call. I really need to work on my impression. I hold out two bills. She looks back and sees the money. "C'mon. I'm not gonna hurt you."

She stares at me for a second, and then she comes closer and takes the money.

"Th- Thank you," she says.

I smile. "You're welcome."

She runs off with the money in her hands, and I continue on. Soon, I stand in the shadow of the District Five Peacekeeper base of Sector Three. The bored receptionist looks up and smiles at me. I return the favor.

"You might want to hurry," she says, "I hear you'll be busy today."

Busy. Great. I might be good at my job, but that doesn't mean I enjoy it. I wasn't even technically allowed to join until last month, my eighteenth birthday, but that didn't stop my dad from putting me in.

I hurry into the locker room, where I find Barak closing his locker.

"Hey," he says, "Running late?"

I glance at the clock. "Not technically. Did I miss anything?"

"I hear that there's a drug bust planned for today. Some ol' man's been running a business."

I pull my Peacekeeper suit off the rack and quickly put it on. Holding my helmet, I enter the lineup room and slide into my seat, the only empty one in the entire place. I notice the looks, but I try to ignore them.

I'm assigned to a drug bust with two others, Barak included. I take a deep breath and put on my helmet before I exit the building. When people see you as a Peacekeeper, everything changes. People don't respect you as a person anymore; they fear you.

The two of us follow Thora, the other member of our group, through the alleys of Sector Three. Being in the back, my job is to watch for any dangers from behind. As we make our way in the twists and turns, the haphazard buildings get closer and closer. Looking up, I see the grey, rotting wood, blending in with the drearily smoggy sky and threatening to fall at any moment. Collapsed buildings are some of the biggest causes of death in District Five.

We turn back into a major street, where a group of kids is playing. When they see us, they run inside. Peacekeepers were designed to keep peace and make Panem a better place, but they seem to only create fear and anger. As much as the government is working, something is definitely wrong here.

"The house is at the end of the street," Thora says, her voice ringing from the headset I'm wearing. I squint and see a small shack with a roof that seems on the verge of collapse.

"Seems easy enough," Barak says.

"Then let's go," I say.

We walk down the street until we're practically beside the shack. It's in worse condition than I thought; ivy is pulling apart the walls and the door is barely standing. How an old man can live in here is beyond my understanding.

Barak goes around the back to check for other exits. "There's another door back here," he says.

"You stay back there," Thora commands, "Aaron and I will go through the front."

"Got it," he replies.

Thora adjusts her mouthpiece so that her voice is heard outside her suit. "And we're going in in three… two… one."

I shove the door in and Thora charges in ahead of me. I follow on her heels, holding up my gun in a ready position.

"Don't move!" she orders, "Put your hands up."

An old man sits at a table with three men, one barely older than a teen and another with a tattoo down his left cheek, around him. The three immediately make a run for the back door. We've gone over this. I go after them while she takes care of the old man.

I hear a shout from outside, and I find two of the three druggies trying to take down Barak; the third, the younger one, is reeling, clutching his stomach. Barak's doing fine on his own, but I jump in anyway. Quickly, I get the younger one in handcuffs, but the other two are much harder. Barak takes the tattooed one and I focus on subduing the other. I tackle him to the ground, but he reaches for my gun. I grab a nearby stone and slam it down on his hand, breaking his hand with a crack. He screams, and the rest is easy. Barak has the last one cuffed and subdued as Thora comes out back.

"Good job," she says, "Let's go."

I walk the guy with the broken hand in front of me.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, "I'll do my best to get that fixed as soon as possible."

He just grunts.

I sigh. Sometimes, it seems like everyone hates us, but it's all in a day's work.

* * *

 **Questions:**

 **1\. Thoughts on Raffi? What do you like/dislike about her? How will she react to the games? Did you notice anything… special about her POV?**

 **2\. How do you feel about Aaron? How will he do in the Games?**

 **3\. Predictions?**

 **4\. Does everyone here know roughly how my new Panem works, or is it still confusing for some of y'all?**

 **So… I'm done here.**

 **See y'all,**

 **~Joseph**


	11. District Six Non-Reaping

**A/N Guess who's alive? This author! I'm so sorry for the unannounced hiatus. It was a mixture of school, lack of inspiration, and plain laziness, and gosh… it's been a month! Augh….**

 **I completely understand if you choose not to continue reading. This chapter isn't that great anyway; you can tell when I was trying to force words on the screen. I do hope that you don't hate me too much, though…**

 **I know I'm so behind on reviews. I have a lack of motivation. If I owe you a review, mention it in a review or a PM and I'll try to get back ASAP.**

 **I hope you'll forgive me… on with the chapter!**

* * *

 _ **Diesel Wing, 18, District Six Male**_

I open my eyes and stare at the crack in the ceiling, which is dripping water into an old bucket on the floor. It rained last night, and it just so happens that the depression on the roof lines up with the crack. Or maybe the depression and collected water caused the crack in the ceiling. The house is strangely quiet. Whatever. Ugh, my head throbs with a headache, and my throat is dry and parched. I probably shouldn't have drank that extra bottle… Oh well.

I groan as I climb out of bed and wash my face in the sink, gulping down a few big mouthfuls of water. That's better now. The headache should be gone in about an hour. What time is it…

10 AM. I guess I overslept by about...two or three hours? I was supposed to leave for work at 7. That makes a lot more sense. Usually, I'd hear the rhythmic of Axle's chair thumping against the floor as he prepares to go to school. Three hours late… I'm probably fired now. Not like I care;the job sucked and I can live without having one. Dad will throw a fit when he gets back from the night shift, but what does he know? He works all day and lives a miserable life.

I light a cigarette and sit down on the old sofa across from the television. I try to turn it on, but there's no power. That's right; we haven't made any payments to the power company this month. So that's another thing off the list. First was the postal service, now it's the electricity.

The front door opens, and I hear Dad flicking on the light switch. It's a little hard since my left ear is deaf, but I've gotten used to this.

"There's no power," I say.

He yelps in surprise. "Diesel! What are you doing here? Why aren't you at work?"

"Overslept by three hours."

"What?"

"Yeah," I say, "I'm fired anyway; it isn't worth going over there."

"Still, you could try."

"Go all the way there so that they can fire me? Nah, I'll wait here for the letter. Oh wait, the mail doesn't come here anymore. Not like it matters, really."

"First it was school, now it's this," he huffs, "Why can't you put yourself to anything? Your teachers said that you were gifted in mathematics."

"What good is school? I don't need any of that crap."

"Look at Axle," he says, "He-"

"I know, Axle this, Axle that. Whatever." I get up. "I'm not Axle. Or Voytuk. Or any of those others that your compare me to, okay?"

"Diesel," he says, "Get a job. We're barely living off of what we have right now."

"And if I get a job, we still won't have enough. Whatever. No use."

His face is turning red with exasperation. "What am I supposed to do with you? Your mom worked herself for you, and you do nothing but smoke like a chimney. You're just a financial burden. You'll never become anything!"

Ouch. That hurt. I make towards the door, grabbing the pack of cigarettes on the way out and pocketing the lighter.

"Where are you going?" he says.

I don't reply as I slam the door behind me. I'm a financial burden? Then you won't miss me for a few days. You don't want me around? I don't have to stick around. I'll just couch-surf for a few days. It's nothing I haven't done before.

I walk down the meandering road that leads to the junkyard. It won't rain tonight; I can stay a night there if Kiva's too busy. It's relatively safe there unlike the central city, which is dangerous after nightfall. Even the "great and mighty" Capitol can't deal with the rogues in there. Mr. President up there in his fancy castle once tried to impose a curfew in there. They only got themselves five dead Peacekeepers. They set up so many programs, but all that happens is an increase in taxes to pay for the programs. The rebels aren't much better either. I sometimes hear their bombing at night, but they're just causing our district to self-destruct. It won't be long until the whole nation's up in flames, and when that happens, what good is a job?

I step through the huge gates that open into the junkyard. This used to be a train yard, but ever since the rebels bombed it, it's become a collection of scrap metal and furniture. Some people argue that this metal could be resold, but who'd buy this stuff? I sit down on an old rotting chair and wait.

Before long, I see Kiva's slender figure walking in.

She waves.

"What's up?" I say.

She shrugs. "Busy. How's work?"

"Well… yeah. Fired."

"So quickly?" she gasps, "It's only been… three days?"

"You betcha," I say. "Some people just weren't made for work."

She sighs. "That's your decision. But you can't spend life here."

I gesture at the metal around me. "I could…" She doesn't look amused. "Maybe I can't," I admit, "By the way, can I stay at your house tonight? You know I won't disturb anything."

"Yeah, sure," she says, "But come in after 10. My parents aren't too happy with 'strangers' staying in our house."

"Sure," I say, "I don't mind."

I light another cigarette.

"You know," I say, "I could probably save quite a bit of money if I quit smoking."

"You could."

"But I don't think I will."

She shrugs. Sure, I started smoking a little early, but it was bound to happen anyway. There's no point in trying.

* * *

 _ **Christina Ford, 17, District Six Female**_

I peep into the open back window of the bakery and take a deep whiff of the smell of food. Careful, Christina, don't act too quickly. I hear the baker move into the kitchen for the afternoon rush, so I scramble through the window into the corridor. If I'm caught, I'll be whipped. I remember the scars on my back and double my resolve. Remaining in the shadows, I quickly sidle up to the storage room. I place my hand on the knob and turn it slowly. The easy part is over; now to open it.

The door begins to creak as I pull the door open, so I stop. They really need to oil the hinges…. No one heard. I should be fine. I open the door until the crack is barely large enough for me to fit my skinny body through, and I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness before grabbing bits of food and putting it in my bag. A chunk of ham here, a can of beans there; I don't want them to notice. That way, they'll continue to leave this place unguarded.

When my back is full, I peep through the crack in the door to make sure the coast is clear before tiptoeing to the window. I scamper out of the bakery and, looking around for anyone that might have seen me, I flee the scene.

I make my way through the alleys until I find the back alley, where Arnold, Sarah, and I stay. Sarah's the only one there now.

"Where's Arnold?" I ask.

"He went to see if anyone was hiring," she says, "He got offered a deal to help move stuff just for today, so he took it."

"So there's no one hiring?" I say.

"Yeah, I checked this morning. Even the factories are full. It's probably the 'raise the minimum wage' thing. The owners can't afford to hire new people."

"You've gotta give the Capitol some credit for trying to help."

"Yeah, I know, but they don't know anything! It's all hit or miss right now."

I shrug and put the bag of food down. "I'll go check and see if any spot's opened since this morning."

"It's only been a few hours."

"So? If anything opens up," I say, preparing to go, "I'm going to be the first to get it."

She shrugs. "Sure, I guess. See you later."

As I approach the social services center, I notice the crowd gathered inside. Still, I push my way inside and try my best to get as close to the front desk as possible. Peacekeepers stand along the walls, worried about the crowd, while the people at the counter are busier than ever. It must be the new wave of layoffs.

The line never seems to end. Maybe I could cut a few people? I mean, that's not that _nice_ , but how long have I been here? It's going to take me forever. Maybe I will. I take a step, but I almost run into a little girl standing beside her mom.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," I say, flustered.

The mom looks at me with weary eyes and ignores me.

"It's okay," the girl says. She can't be more than five years old.

"How… long have you been here?" I ask in a hushed voice.

"I don't know," she says, "But I'm hungry. Mom says that when she finds a job, we'll have a good dinner."

"...Oh."

"Are you hungry?"

Unsure of how to respond, I back away, returning to my spot in line. That was awkward. How long has that girl been here? When was the last time she had a meal? I chide myself for even considering cutting the line. I might've waited for a while, but making them wait longer? That's just wrong!

An hour or so passes, and there are only about thirty people left before it's my turn. The girl and her mom are fourth in line; I hope they don't walk away disappointed. Suddenly, a small group of men and women barge into the center. One look at them and I know they're one of the inner-city gangs. They don't come out here often, but they must've thought that it'd be faster here. Curses begin to rise as they push their way through the crowd, forcing their way to the front of the line. This'll delays us by at least another twenty minutes. Where are the Peacekeepers? Not a single one in sight? Did they just change shifts? Someone has to do _something_. Where's everyone with power? The little girl presses close against her mother, and I know I have to be the one.

"Excuse me," I squeak. D*mm*t, the people around me can barely hear me. I collect myself. It's not that big of a deal. I can do this. I gather my courage and repeat. "Excuse me!"

They ignore me, and I step out of line and push through the people. "Excuse me." One of the women turns her head. "You can't push your way to the front. It's not fair to those of us that've waited here for hours."

She narrows her eyes at me and laughs, drawing the attention of everyone around us. "You're serious, right?" she says in a loud voice.

Won't take me seriously? I feel my cheeks burning. "Yes."

She turns around and stops paying attention to me.

"I'm serious! Get to the back of the line!"

"Stop pestering us," one of the men growls, "You'll regret it." He laughs. "You look funny when you're angry."

Too late to back down now. But I can't possibly fight any of them... I look and see that Peacekeepers are resuming their position. "Peacekeeper!" I shout. I have to repeat myself before my voice is heard, but one comes through the sea of people. I explain the situation, and the story is confirmed by the people around us. Soon, the group is forced to leave. I see the little girl smile out of the corner of my eye.

Soon, I'm at the front of the line.

"How may I help you?"

"I'm looking for any job," I say, "I- I'll take anything. I don't care if it's the lowest of the low."

She looks me up and down. "I'm sorry, there aren't any openings for someone with your physique."

"Are you sure? I'll clean the streets. I-"

"I'm sorry, but there are people waiting. There aren't any available jobs."

I shuffle away from the counter and out of the crowded social service center. The sun is already setting. Another afternoon wasted. Sarah sees me and immediately knows what's going on.

"It's okay," she says, "We'll try again another time. We're bound to hit gold someday."

I hear a distant explosion, followed by gunshots. The rebels are up to no good again. Really, they think that small bombings are going to change anything? Panem is falling apart. The Capitol is greedy and rich, but the rebels are stupid and suicidal. Can't they see that these "acts of terror," as they are called, will only lead to the destruction of our district? Besides, it's impossible to sleep.

It sucked today. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

* * *

 **Questions:**

 **1\. Thoughts and predictions for Diesel?**

 **2\. Thoughts and predictions for Christina?**

 **3\. Thoughts and predictions for my updating schedule?**

 **4\. How many of the previous tributes do you remember** _ **without**_ **going back and checking?**

* * *

 **District Seven should be out a lot sooner than this one was… I hope. Bug me! PM me! Keep me involved in this website! That'll be a constant reminder of my obligation as an author to y'all, my readers.**

 **See y'all,**

 **~Joseph**


	12. District Seven Non-Reaping

**A/N An update that didn't take a month! Yay! It was like 90% done yesterday, but I ran out of time and had to finish it today. Still, I think I'm getting better at this.**

 **Once again, I apologize for the crappy District Six Non-Reapings. I'll try to give Diesel and Christina a little more love later on in the story to make up for it.**

 **Enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

 _ **Minisa Amaral, 18, District Seven Female**_

The axe hits the dead center of the target. That wasn't hard. I think I might even have a natural talent for this. I still don't think I could use it on a person, though. Even the thought makes me shudder. Use this? On a person? Axes were designed to cut trees, not people. Still, it might just be me. There's almost always an axe-wielder in the Hunger Games.

I walk up to the target and yank it out. This gets repetitive after a while. Why am I even doing this? My last reaping is in a few months. Someone else will volunteer. I'll be free for the rest of my life. The Training Center might as well be a waste of my life.

Izzy walks into the room and picks up an axe. "Hey, Minisa. What's up?"

I shrug. "I'm not sure."

"Not sure? Why?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'm just in a bad mood today."

"C'mon," she says, brushing her hair out of her beautiful eyes. I can't summon the courage to tell her that, though.

I shrug again. "I guess I'm thinking about life."

"What's so depressing about it?"

"I almost feel like I'm wasting my life here."

"How so?"

"I…. shouldn't even be here. I only have one reaping left," I say, "I'm pretty sure I'm not volunteering. I should be doing more important things than throwing axes at a dummy."

"Don't say that! You could be Reaped. Besides, what would you be doing that is more important?"

"I.. don't know. Maybe making money? It would only be right."

"Look, Minisa, your parents encouraged you to do this! Stop beating yourself down."

"I guess…"

"You know what? Let's go somewhere else, then. This room is too depressing. Maybe the park or somewhere. You need to enjoy yourself every once in a while."

"Sure."

An hour later, I walk home.

"Anyone?" I call. No answer. Of course… while I've been relaxing, everyone's been working. Come on, Minisa, can't you do your part? Why are you always the one _not_ doing anything? Maybe I can clean the house…

The kitchen is still cluttered with dishes from Alec's breakfast this morning; he must've not had enough time to clean up before going to work. I turn on the water and begin to wash the dishes.

As I scrub the oil off the plate, I wonder at myself. I'm not much. I don't do anything big or brave, unlike Mom, Dad, and Alec. They're always working hard and being outstanding. They'll be remembered for generations. But me? What is there about me that's courageous? I can't even directly compliment Izzy for fear that she'll realize how I feel about her. I'm cowardly like that.

I'm startled by the opening of the front door. Hurriedly, I rinse off the last bowl and place it on the rack. How long have I been doing this? Gosh, Minisa, you can't even wash dishes correctly.

"Hey," Alec says, coming into the kitchen.

"Hey," I reply, getting a cup of water while he washes his face. I guess it's what you'd call a sibling thing; it's almost an instinct to know what the other will probably do. I've heard that other siblings quarrel and fight, but I've never understood that. I'd say that Mom and Dad did a good job raising us. I'd probably be a horrible mother…

I give him the water as soon as he's dried his face off with the towel.

"How was training today?" he asks.

"It's was okay," I say, "Izzy took me to the park for a bit."

"Nice. Did you tell her yet?"

I blush as he smiles. "No way."

"I could tell her for you," he offers, "What else am I here for?"

"Definitely not that," I say, laughing. "Please, don't." I harden my face. "If you ever tell her-"

"C'mon, relax," he says, "I won't tell her unless you tell me to. You know that."

"How about you? Anything special?" I ask.

"Nah," he says, "Well, nothing except for the regular. How's it going with choosing a job?"

I shrug. "I really don't know. I'd like logging and what you all are doing, but…" I trail off.

"But what?"

"I don't know."

"Is this the whole 'courage' thing again?"

"Maybe…" I say.

"Look," he says, "Stop worrying about it. What are your options?"

"Logging seems likely," I say, "Though I could always continue school and try to get one of those high-ranking positions. Trainer at the Center isn't that far either."

"What do you want?" he says, grabbing a bit of bread from the refrigerator.

"I don't know… Everything feels so…"

"So…"

I throw my hands up. "I don't know!"

"Are you trying to prove something?"

I don't answer. Come to think of it, that sounds about right.

"You don't need to prove anything to us. You know that."

"I know," I say, "But…"

"Are you trying to prove it to yourself? Prove that you're strong and worth it?"

"Maybe…"

"The right time will come," he says. He smiles. "Don't worry."

I used to believe that it was true, but now I'm not so sure. What if I'm this coward forever?

 _ **Pembroke Thompson, 17, District Seven Male**_

The _x_ 's and numbers on the mathematics worksheet are blending together. Twenty-six… A three somewhere… What is this? I slam my pencil down on the desk and groan. I can't focus in here! The cold, unfamiliar room distracts me, and none of this is making sense in my head. It was already hard enough to get my homework done in the old house; this new environment is making everything worse. Schoolwork. With the trial and everything coming up, I can't focus on anything. It doesn't help that I'm pretty sure I have Attention Deficit Disorder. Why do I have to do this anyway? I'm not even going to be in school until after the trial.

There's a knock on the door. "Come in!" I call.

My mom opens the door and enters the room. The smells of her cooking enter with her. "How is it?" she asks.

I rub my forehead. "Not so well."

"I'm sorry," she says.

"It's not your fault," I say. I throw the pen at the wall. "Still, I can't believe that Dad took her side over mine."

"I understand."

"Doesn't he know me well enough to know that I would _never_ assault anyone? I'm his f***ing son!"

She puts her hand on my shoulder. "I know," she says, the pain clear in her voice, "I can't believe it either."

I sigh. This hasn't been easy for her, either. Separating after nineteen perfectly good years of marriage can't feel good.

"How's unpacking?" she asks.

"I've cleaned out about half of the clothes. I've still got two boxes."

"Take your time, okay?"

"Okay." I look back down at the worksheet. Argh… "How's Laurel?"

Mom's face brightens. I haven't gotten her do that in a while. Lately, it seems like I've just been causing pain. No, I haven't. Cassia is.

"She's doing well," she says. "She doesn't understand the idea of unpacking important things first, so she only unpacked her toys."

I smile. "Sounds like Laurel." My 7-year-old sister is nothing like the rest of us. She's nothing Like Dad, who's always stern, or Hazel, who stuck to Dad, or even Mom or me. I don't get how she manages to always be happy, but she somehow does. "Wish I could have a bit of her happiness right now."

"It will all work out. They'll see that there is no evidence to convict you. We'll get through this, okay?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Still love you."

"Thanks."

She leaves.

Oh… Cassia, Cassia, Cassia. What did I ever do to you? Break up? Is that the worst you've ever had? That's what I get for dating the mayor's daughter.

"Pembroke?" mom calls.

"Yeah?"

"Ivy's here to see you."

Ivy. Here to see me. She, along with Poplar and Glenn, should've done that when I needed her, not now that everything is quieting down. Still, my curiosity is getting the best of me. "Coming!"

I walk down the stairs.

"...I'll take your jacket," I hear my mom say.

"Thank you, Mrs. Thompson," Ivy says. She looks up. "Hey, Pembroke."

"Hey," I say. My mom goes back to the kitchen. "What are you doing here?"

"I… just thought you'd want to know about everything you've missed."

"Yeah? What."

"Well… Cassia's pretty much ruling the school. People buy her stories, even though she changes it a bit every time. She's turned almost everyone against you."

"That's right," I huff. _Even you_ , I silently add.

"What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? Are you seriously asking me what's wrong? She's even turned you against me, that's what's wrong. While she made her accusations, every single one of you stayed away from me. And now you think you can come back as if nothing ever went wrong? It doesn't work like that!"

She stares at the ground, takes a deep breath, and swallows. "I'm… sorry for being such a bad friend."

"HuH?"

"I'm sorry," she continues, "I apologize. At the time, I was so scared that she'd accuse me of something if I stuck by you. I didn't realize that you needed us-"

"Us?"

"Yeah. Poplar and Glenn are coming around too in the next few days. I didn't realize that you needed us the most. That's actually why I came tonight, to apologize."

I take a deep breath. "I won't say it's all okay—because it isn't. But I guess we could work past everything."

The smile returns to her face.

"So…" I say, "How are you?"

"It's hard," she says, "It's weird walking through the halls every day with Cassia playing everyone. You?"

"Just thinking about the trails scares me," I admit, "She's the mayor's daughter. Everyone loves her. I'm pretty sure she could play the judge and get him to say I'm guilty."

"Why'd you break up in the first place?"

I shrug. "She got too demanding. I never should've fallen for her. Now I'll get jail time and a mark on my record and everyone hates me."

"Not-"

"C'mon, it's pretty much everyone. Even if I do end up not guilty, everyone will still think that I'm a cruel person who broke up with the mayor's daughter just to see her suffer. I'll have no future. No one's going to hire me."

"That's not-"

"You know it's true." I throw up my hands. "If everyone hates me that much, I might as well volunteer for the Hunger Games. Then everyone can watch me die on national television."

"Stop it, Pembroke! There has to be a way."

"What way?"

"I- I don't know. Aren't you the cheerful one today. You were always the positive one, not me."

"Not anymore."

"Please. Where is the old you?"

"You don't like me now?" I say, "Then you might as well leave like everyone else."

"No. I'm not leaving. But just so you know, if you run into the old Pembroke, tell him I miss him."

I sigh. That's never going to happen. Whether I stay in District Seven or volunteer for the Hunger Games, I'm never going to be able to go back to the cheerful person I used to be.

I kinda wish I could.

* * *

 **Questions:**

 **1\. How do you feel about Minisa? How will her outlook on life influence her performance in the Games?**

 **2\. Thoughts on Pembroke? How do you think his situation will play out?**

 **3\. Predictions?**

 **4\. Favorite District so far based on the tributes?**

 **5\. Which characters from the previous districts do you not remember?**

* * *

 **A/N So... yeah. I hope the next chapter gets out faster. Thanks for all your patience with this updating schedule.**

 **See y'all,**

 **~Joseph**


	13. District Eight Non-Reaping

**A/N I'm not dead!... Just busy. Anyway, I've got good news and bad news.**

 **Good News: THIS CHAPTER IS OUT!**

 **Bad News: I'm doing NaNoWriMo this year, which is a program in which I'm challenged to write a 50k book in November. I've had this original idea floating around in my head for a while, and I'm going to get it out by writing it into a book. Good, right? Unfortunately, this means there probably won't be any chapters in November. Sorry… On with the chapter.**

* * *

 _ **Taffeta Mitchell, 15, District Eight Female**_

"Mix Chemical A with Chemical B…." the teacher drones. Augh, Chemistry is so _boring_. Who has the time for this anyway? I look at Robert, my lab partner. He makes this class so much more bearable; it's the only class we have together. I don't know how he feels about this, but I can't stop look at him. He smiles faintly, something he does when he's thinking. Gosh, that smile is so… dreamy.

"You're getting this down, right?" he says, "She's giving us the instructions, y'know."

"Wait- huh? What did I miss?"

"Everything. You look like you have no idea what you're doing."

"No — I know what's going on, " I say, hoping I don't sound too clueless. "You can start."

He looks down at his notes, and a bit of his hair falls over his right eye. He takes the beaker and looks at me expectantly. Wait…

"Are you going to do anything?" he says, his voice a little sharper now. Wow, it even sounds good when he isn't happy.

"Do what?"

"You're clueless."

I chuckle nervously.

He sighs. "I'll do it myself. Hold the beaker," he says, giving it to me to hold.

He puts a few things together and grabs the two test tubes. I'll never get how anyone understands all this. Even when I finally get something, I forget it in time for the next test. Guess what I'm not going to be… A chemist. Bet you couldn't tell.

Pretty soon, the bell rings to end the day. Robert grabs his bag and hurries off into the crowd. Indigo stands next to the door, waiting for me.

"What's up?" she says, "How was it being his lab partner?"

I smile. "I tried to focus on the lab, but it was so impossible because I left thinking about him! I'm pretty sure I failed the lab, but Chemistry wasn't my forte anyway!"

"Aww…."

"It's fine," I say, "Do you think he likes me?!"

"I hope so. He did seem a little annoyed though… He tries so hard in everything!"

"Can you wait a second?" I say as we round a corner. "I need to get my folder out of my locker. It'll only take a minute or two."

"Sure."

I scurry over to my locker, pop it open after putting in the combination, and grab the green and blue striped folder that I use for art. I flip through it to make sure nothing's missing — it's silly, I know, but this is valuable to me.

As I hurry back, I hear loud voices.

"You're such a drama queen!" a girl says. That must be Chloe. Argh… not again.

"And you're a dirty beggar!" Indigo fires back.

"Well, I'm sorry that not all of us have it as easy as you do," Chloe says, "Some of us actually have to work for our food!" It's true; Indigo is relatively rich, but that doesn't mean she should be teased for it. It's not like she chose her family.

"Shut up, Chloe!" I say as I approach. "Mind your own business. Some of us are actually comfortable in our own skins. We don't have to pick on others to feel better."

"And some people here have no sense of style. You look like you made your clothes out of little pieces of scrap cloth."

"You know what, Chloe? We'll go on our way. Feel sorry about yourself by yourself."

I grab Indigo's arm and walk off. Chloe. I hate her more than anyone else I know. Why is she such a pain in the neck?

"I hate her so much," Indigo mutters.

"Same," I say, "But I wish I were as confident as she was. She seems like she refuses to look up to anyone. I kinda want that."

We walk for a little while in silence.

"So…" she says, "Is Silke coming back this weekend?"

"Yes!" I say. Silke is my older sister; she's always been the envy of the town for being so smart, so creative, so successful. She currently attends the Capitol-sponsored school here in District Eight.

"Does she tell you about what the school is like?"

"I little," I say, "She says that the classes on color and design are amazing!"

"I'd love to go there, but it's so hard to get in…"

"Yeah," I agree.

"How did Silke get in?"

"Her grades were good enough, I guess," I say. Silke may be amazing, but you don't see how annoying she can be unless you live with her.

We reach the intersection, and I wave goodbye to Indigo. I unlock the door to my empty house and go upstairs to my room. My current project lies on the sewing machine; I'll work on it later. Some say my style is a bit eccentric—I do see their point—but this is an art. If I want to wear certain clothes, I'm wearing certain clothes.

I wash my face and try to remember what I have to do. FIrst, I'll need to prepare for my shift at the factory and get a list of things so that Joey knows what to do when he gets back. I won't get back until late tonight, so every day, I leave a list of chores for him. He's eleven; he can handle it.

The clock ticks down. He must be with a friend; I have to go now. I slip into work clothes and walk to the factory, skipping every now and then because I feel like it. A few people give me strange looks, but hey, why should I care? This is _my_ life.

 _ **Serge Foulard, 17, District Eight Male**_

I shovel another load of coal into the fire that illuminates the otherwise dark room. Even with the full-face mask that keeps the black powder out of my lungs, I want to cough in the huge cloud of dust that rises up from the ground, coating my soot-covered work clothes in another layer of black coal dust. In District Eight, we're slowly making the transition to electricity-powered factories, but for now, this one is stuck with coal.

A drop of sweat runs down the side of my face under the mask, and I add more coal to the fire. I look around at the other men working the fires. Most of us aren't even fully out of school, the oldest one being Romal, in his late twenties. He catches me watching, and he gives me a thumbs up. It's impossible to talk here, so we have to do with gestures. I crack a smile under my mask and shovel more coal.

The bell rings, and I hear the sound of people moving out. We don't have that privilege; we work until the next set of guys come in. Rule number one: Don't let the fires go out. It's not that big of a deal anyways, it's only a few more minutes. I've never understood people that count down the seconds until they can leave the factory. Of course, I don't enjoy this, but if you're going to do a job, you might as well do it to the best of your ability. Thinking about getting out distracts you from doing your job well.

The door behind us creaks open, and white light from the hall shines into the room. TIme to go. I hand the shovel to the next guy and give a little salute. I can't really tell, but I think he smiles.

I walk to the prep room and take off the mask. Quickly, I put it in the sink to wash — they aren't going to wash themselves, and if they aren't kept clean, the coal residue will build up. I change into a clean set of clothes and leave the factory, stepping into the cool night air.

After a long day like this, I'd like nothing more than to go home and go to bed, but I've got a load of homework to do. When I get home, I wash my face with cold water to help keep me awake and get to work on my desk. There's only a month or two of school left before I graduate, but while most of my friends are just chilling at this point, I know I've got more important things to do. If I had their attitude, I wouldn't be where I am today. I built myself up. I was that kid in 3rd grade that teachers thought would drop out. Look at me now. They wouldn't believe it if they saw me now. I'm not going to live the same crappy life as my parents do, and I know that if I work, I can make it work. It's gotten me this far, hasn't it?

I begin on the essay that'll be a major part of my application to the Capitol school. The deadline is in a month, but I know that I need to start now. This'll give me a head over the ones that don't start until the last week.

I hear the front door open. My mom's home. I hear her putting away some food, and she comes over.

"How much work do you have tonight?" she asks, putting a hand on my shoulder. "It's getting late."

"Umm…" I say, looking up, "Not much. I'm gonna finish the draft for the essay tonight and then do the math stuff."

"Will it take you long?"

"I don't think so," I say, going back to writing. "Besides, this is important."

"I know, but I'm just worried that you won't get enough sleep."

"Don't worry," I say. I smile. "I can live off of five hours a night."

"But that's not enough."

"It's just a temporary thing. I'll get more sleep after I graduate. But until then, all this work needs to be done."

"I understand," she says, not completely convinced. "Please do keep good care of yourself, okay? I worry about you a lot."

"I will. And again, don't worry, mom. I know what I'm doing."

"Okay."

She goes to the kitchen to grab something to eat. I feel my eyelids drooping, but I force myself to work. This is more important. Sleep can wait. There go my eyelids again…

Augh! I go wash my face again. I have to get this done. I pinch myself to keep my focus and force myself to write until the last period is on the page. Next, I zoom through the math. I know that it's not completely correct, but I also know that my mind will be clearer and have a better perspective in the morning.

When the last equation is done, I lean back and stretch. I'm so ready to sleep. I quickly brush my teeth and curl up in bed. Another day is over. Right now the days are hard, but one day, things will change. I'm building up my future, and with this hard work, there's no way it could fail.

* * *

 **Questions:**

 **1\. How do you feel about Taffeta? Why?**

 **2\. Thoughts on Serge? Why?**

 **3\. What are their character flaws?**

 **4\. Predictions?**

* * *

 **A/N By the way, if you care, Serge was always intended for District Eight. It's a kind of durable, twilled, woolen fabric.**

 **Sorry in advance for the long wait coming up. It is what it is.**

 **See y'all!**

 **~Joseph**


	14. District Nine Non-Reaping

**A/N Could it be? Joseph** _ **updated**_ **? Believe it or not folks, this story is** _ **not**_ **dead. I just took a break for NaNoWriMo (which I did complete, by the way), and then took a break from writing afterward… that ended up taking way too long. Still, I'm back and motivated to finish this story, so that's that. Please do note that my writing is quite rusty...**

 _ **Allio Spottedberg, 13, District Nine Male**_

I sit on the bench right outside of school. The sun is high in the sky today, but it's a little cooler than yesterday because there's a nice breeze today. District Nine isn't really all that far south, but in a district where there aren't trees everywhere, it can get pretty hot in the summer. We don't have much man-made shade either; most of us live in single-storey houses. We don't have any of the tall buildings that the Capitol supposedly has. The weather usually seems nice there. School just ended a few minutes ago, and I'm just waiting for Fennel to get here so we can go home. He's busy discussing something with a teacher; I think he got in trouble again.

I look up at the big, blue sky. It's not a bad day today. If I can get my homework done in time, I'll go to the yard and work on the old clock I found the other day. I've started on it, but I couldn't finish it yesterday because I was missing a piece. I think I found a similar piece before school today, so I'll have to try-

"Hey," a rude voice interrupts my thoughts. I look up to see Cape approaching, his rough, black hair blowing in the breeze. At our school, we have grades six through twelve, so that means that high schoolers, such as my brother Fennel and Cape here, are in the same school. Oh… dear. Not good… not good…

"Oh," I say, a little tensely, "Hey, Cape."

"What are you doing here?" he says, "Waiting for your brother? What did he do this time? Steal the teacher's money?"

"No," I say, "He-"

"You're probably lying anyway, just like those Capitol liars you support. All you people do is steal our food that we've worked hard for and then force us to do your bidding."

Not this again. He towers over me, a deadly smirk on his face. Last time this happened, I ended us with a bloody nose. It's not exactly an experience I want to repeat. I try to back away, then I remember that I'm sitting on a bench. Shoot. I'm stuck here.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Fennel rush over and shove Cape to the side. "Stay away from my brother. Mess with me all you want, but you are not touching Allio."

"What, you know it's true," Cape continues, "You-"

"Shut up!" Fennel says, "I'm just going to take my brother and go home. There's no talking to thick-skulled people like you."

"Thick-skulled? That's funny coming from a person who willingly supports the Capitol."  
Fennel ignores Cape. "Come on, let's go."

I get up and follow him, and we leave the schoolyard. The gravel on the road crunches beneath our shoes, and there are some birds overhead.

"Are you okay?" Fennel asks. He seems tired.

"I'm fine. Nothing really happened," I say.

"Next time he messes with you, I'm ending this."

"No, really, I'm fine. He didn't really do anything," I say.

"He was about to."

I sigh. "What were you doing?"  
"Oh," he says, "I just had a project idea and I wanted to talk it over with Mr. Fielders."  
I shouldn't have doubted him. Of course, he wasn't in trouble; that usually only happens when he gets in fights with Cape.

The gravel crunches underneath our shoes as we walk. Fennel seems to seethe underneath his firm, pressed-together lips, and I keep my mouth shut. As great as he is as a brother, he can get temperamental.

Our house is at the end of the street, and beyond it, the green stalks of grain goes out as far as the eye can see. In District Nine, most of the residents live in small communities of a few hundred people, which are separated from each other by huge swaths of farmland. Each community is required to take care of the fields around it. This makes sense, but I can only wonder what they do in other districts, such as the coal miners in District Twelve. How do they organize their people? I'd love to travel someday, but first, I'd need to explore my own district. I've only been to the central city once — for the reaping last year. It was scary, but it's a necessary evil — at least that's what Dad says. I don't know enough to make up my mind.

I follow Fennel into the house, and he hurries into the back room to change into work clothes. Our house is relatively large compared to most other people. We have the main room, a kitchen, two bathrooms, and three bedrooms, so who am I to complain? Some of my friends at school live in two-room houses. My mom, her brown hair tied back, stands at the kitchen counter, chopping some carrots for dinner tonight, and I go and put my bag down in the kitchen.

"How was school?" she asks, looking up briefly.

I smile. "It was okay."

"Just okay?'

"Yeah." I pause. "Mom?"

"Yes?"

"What do you think about the Capitol?"

She stops cutting. "What?"

"What do you think about the Capitol? I know that Dad supports them, but it seems like everyone else hates it."

"Well," she says, "I don't support it."

"Why not?" It doesn't make sense _not_ to. The main reason we have everything we do is because Dad supports the Capitol. Besides, most of the really anti-Capitol people are criminals. They just burn stuff down and bring in the Peacekeepers.

She sighs. "You'll understand when you get older." She washes her hands and dries them on a towel. The sun in shining in through the kitchen window, and then entire place looks nice. I hear the front door open; Fennel's leaving for work in the fields. Once I'm fourteen, I'll have to do that too. "Do you have homework?" she asks.

I groan. "Can't I go work on the clock?"

"Finish your homework first, okay?"

"Okay," I sigh. Homework sucks. It's so hard to focus on because it's so _boring_. Oh well. I'd better go get that done.

 _ **Ryzee Fleet, 15, District Nine Female**_

I watch Sonnet draw as she sits on the floor, and I clean up her other toys. Usually, Kezia would be here to babysit with me—and talk when Sonnet doesn't want to play anymore and just draws by herself—, but she had errands to run. She'll stop by with Laelia when I leave, though. We're going over to the market today. In District Nine, six out of seven days of the week are workdays, and the seventh is market day. We don't have school, work, or anything. The Capitol doesn't really care as long as we meet our quotas, and we haven't missed one for the past ten years.

Slightly bored, I sit down beside Sonnet. She's eight, and she's so _cute_! I smile as she colors in the yellow flowers that grow like weeds here in District Nine. Though she has trouble speaking a lot of the time, she's better at drawing than I am.

The loud roaring of a pickup truck alerts me to the fact that Mrs. Damien, Sonnet's mom, is back. I quickly scan the room one last time for anything I need to clean up. Everything looks okay.

The door squeaks open, and Mrs. Damien enters, holding a burlap bag with some vegetables.

"Hello, Mrs. Damien," I say.

"Hey," she says, "How was Sonnet?"

"She was great," I say, "She's fun."

Mrs. Damien smiles. "I'm glad to hear that." She reaches for her wallet. "I pay you today, correct?"

"Correct," I say as she takes out a few bills and hands them to me. I quickly count them to make sure everything's there. "Thank you."

"No," she says, "Thank _you_. I don't know what I'd do without you. No one else was available to do this so regularly."

I smile. "Well, I'll get going. I'll see you next week."

"Bye."

"Bye."

I walk out of the house and into the bright sunlight outside. Kezia and Laelia are about a block down, and I wave to get their attention before running to them on the dirt road.

"Hey!" I say.

"Hey," Laelia says, her eyes twinkling, "You'll never guess what I found out!"

"What?" I say. I see Kezia rolling her eyes.

"Guess!"

"Umm… I can't think of anything," I say.

"Lambrick Hopkins asked Vienna out on a date!" she says.

"Lambrick?" I say, "You're kidding!"

"No!" Laelia insists, "It's true!"

"I thought he liked Ambra," I said, "Didn't he?"

"Apparently not," Laelia says, "I think she friend-zoned him."

"Aww… That's so sad. They looked so cute together."

"Yeah," Laelia agrees. Kezia just shrugs. She doesn't seem to care as much.

We stroll down the road, chatting about whatever's going on at school.

"Oh," Kezia says, "You know Ms. Millford? The coordinator at school? She asked me to play a few songs for the opening ceremony of the new school building."

"Congratulations!" I say. "You're so amazing on the fiddle. I could never do that."

We approach a man walking his dog, and the dog barks. Wait, no; not a dog. It's more like a puppy. "That puppy is so cute!" I exclaim, bending down to pet it. I love dogs. They're so adorable, but I'm no good at taking care of them. I've adopted six of them, but they always died or disappeared within a year or two. So, I settle for enjoying other people's dogs. I run my hand through his fur, and he doesn't bark.

"Your dog is adorable," I tell the man. He smiles and thanks me.

Soon, we can hear the busy sounds of the market. It's the place where we get our groceries and meat, but there is so much more there since our community is relatively large, with over a thousand residents. We're the center of a cluster of communities, so we get opportunities other people would never have. We join the crowd and look at the different people selling their goods as we walk by. I stop at a stall selling bracelets.

I pick one up. It's made of round wooden marbles, painted a glorious shade of blue and strung together. "It's so pretty!" I look to the old woman at the stand. "Oh, you don't mind me picking it up, right?"

She smiles. "Go ahead, sweetie," she says.

I turn to Kezia. "This would totally match you!"

She flashes a smile. "Thanks, but I'm good."

I put the bracelet back down. I so wish I could get it, but we can't throw away money on everything I want. If we did that, we'd be broke. "Thanks," I say to the woman before turning back to my friends.

"My mom asked me to get some potatoes," Laelia says.

"Okay," I say. I stop walking and look around. "Which way…"

"Follow me," Kezia says. She knows this place the best as she lives one street down, so we follow her. I have to say, she's got an amazing memory. I could never remember this. Well, maybe I could. I just don't try to. That's what my teachers always say, but honestly, I don't have a chance, even if I did try my hardest. Only the people at the top of the socioeconomic ladder have any hope in this sick world.

We make our way through the market. Laelia quickly gets her potatoes, and we follow Kezia out of the winding streets.

"Your memory is so _amazing_ ," I say as we exit, "I go for five minutes and I don't know where I am."

I jump at a sudden pounding down the road. A group of Peacekeepers has gathered at the door of a house. This is common here in Nine, with all the moonshine and everything. Some people completely despise these Peacekeepers for getting involved, but personally, I'm kind of glad. I've heard enough stories of people dying from moonshine, and if you look at the statistics, a person in District Nine is much more likely to die from toxic moonshine than from the Games, Peacekeepers, and all Capitol interferences _combined._ It has to mean something when we're killing more of our own people than the Capitol is. Still, so many people seem to hate Peacekeepers. Life must be hard for them. I don't know why they're doing this job, but they signed up to be spat on for keeping order. Of course, I'm not saying that everything with the Capitol is good; only a sick freak would enjoy the Hunger Games, but seriously, cut the officials and Peacekeepers some slack.

We turn around. We'll have to find a different route to Laelia's house.

 **Questions:**

 **1\. Thoughts on Allio? Did you have any expectations for him? How did the actual character measure up?**

 **2\. Ryzee is a kind of character I've never had to write before, so I'm interested as to how I did. What was your impression of her and personality?**

 **3\. Do you remember the previous tributes? If so, which ones?**

 **4\. Enough questions about the story. How are you doing? Busy? Not busy? How's life going?**

 **5\. How obvious was it that my writing's rusty? Any ideas on how to un-rust it?**

 **A/N Winter break is here for me, so I aim to complete two more chapters before the new year…. Hope that works.**

 **See y'all,**

 **~Joseph**


	15. District Ten Non-Reaping

**A/N Hey! District Ten is here. It took a little longer than I wanted to because one of the tribute forms didn't give me much to work from in terms of depth. Anyways, I'll step aside and let you read. Pease do tell me if I missed any typos.**

* * *

 _ **Kaleb Sirius, 16, District Ten Male**_

 _Life is good_

I look up at the wooden plaque I have above my bedroom door. Panem can be harsh sometimes, so it's nice to have a constant reminder of the happiness in life.

I lean back. School is out for the summer, and though I have to work this afternoon, I'm free for the morning. You know, it's kind of… boring. Usually, I'd go running in the morning, but it's only eight and the sun's blazing. They say that District Ten is one of the southern-most districts. They wouldn't be wrong. So I'll have to get up earlier tomorrow morning.

The doorbell rings, and I step out for a moment to see who it is while Jemima, my twin sister, rushes to the door. Eh, one of her friends.

I sit on my bed and yawn. Across the room is Lowell's bed, but he's out playing with his friends. Maybe I'll go check on Paden; he works in the markets, so his breaks are usually opposite from mine.

Jemima peeks in. "Hey, Kaleb."

"Yeah?" I say. Her friend Icelyn stands behind her. I give a small wave. "What's up?"

"We're going to Austin Market. You want to come?"

I look at her quizzically. "...Why? When did I become a shopping fanatic?"

"Nah. You just looked lonely. You should get some friends," she says with a straight face though the corner of her lip is twitching. I stare back at her, and she bursts out laughing. "Fine. I actually asked because… well… they're holding a discount for groups at that breakfast shop. We need three people, and since you haven't eaten yet, I thought you'd want to come. Besides, you looked bored."

"You were right about that," I say. The smile spreads across my face as I get up. "Well then, let's go."

—

I shove the last bit of the grinkal into my mouth and bask in that wonderful taste that overwhelms my taste buds. Okay, fine, I may be exaggerating a bit, but that combination of that hyper-thin corn pancake and fried eggs along with those sauces and condiments in good like nothing else, especially when it's served freshly made. I have to say, the food is the best part about District Ten. It's easy, cheap, and good. In fact, it's almost cheaper eating out that cooking sometimes. Jemima and Icelyn sit across from me at the table, and as they finish their food, my eyes wander around the "restaurant," if you can call it that. It's really just a small room with a counter with one end and the rest filled with cheap plastic tables and chairs. Outside, there are more tables spilling onto the road outside, but no one cares. This road hasn't been driven on in years.

I stand up. "I'm gonna go find Paden," I say, "I'll see you two around."

"Bye," they chime as I leave.

Because most of the work in District Ten is done in shifts that go 'round the clock, there are always people here, eating, socializing, selling things. Out of all the nation-famous markets of District Ten, this one, Austin Market, is the oldest. It sits on Austin Road, and it's named for one of our earliest victors, Austin Orford, who won back when Four was a Career district and we were slaughtered every year. We've come a long way since, but us citizens of District Ten don't forget our roots.

I wander down the road until I reach Paden's stall. Like most city families, they both own a shift and work in the meat-packing factories, but unlike most families, they don't need to work. They've got plenty of money, but they work anyway. It doesn't make much sense to me. Don't you make more money so that you don't have to work? Oh well, they can do whatever they do.

Paden sits on a tall wooden stool behind his family's jewelry stall. The breeze is messing with his carefully slicked hair.

"You look miserable," I comment.

"You bet," he says, his green eyes dead with boredom. "It's bad enough when you work because you need too; working though you don't need to is just terrible."

"Cheer up," I say, "You're inheriting more of that money when it gets passed down."

He shrugs.

"So how's the other 'business' going today?" I tease, "How many girls have you picked up today?" He's got a face to die for, and I can't resist messing with him sometimes.

He makes an exaggerated gesture of flipping his hair back. I break out laughing, and he grins. "It's a little slower today," he jokes, playing around, "Maybe the sunlight's direction isn't right."

I laugh again.

"Kaleb," he reprimands in an overly stern face, "Stop. You'll scare away all the customers."

I smile, and he cracks his neck.

"Did you hear about the mayor's nervous breakdown?" he says, "One of his advisors — whatever his name is — is doing his job right now."

"Really?" I say, "When did this happen?"

"Last night. According to what I've heard, they found him on the floor of his office completely crashed."

"Oh wow," I say, "He's still trying to get over his son's death?"

"Apparently so. I guess death is just hard for anyone, but it must be especially hard for a Capitol official to lose their son to the Hunger Games."

"That's sadly ironic," I muse. I can't imagine what it'd be like to work for the Capitol all my life and then have them rip away something dear to me, so I don't blame the guy for breaking down.

Still, Panem isn't all bad all the time. In fact, it's quite nice.

...and life's still good.

 _ **Deborah Merlyn, 17, District Ten Female**_

I softly bring my left hand down on the final key of the piece — the C three octaves below middle C. I lift my hands and sit, transfixed, staring at the piano keys. The key of C is an interesting key. It's so… bland, but that's what gives it its beauty. It' simplicity conveys an innocence that no other key does, even other bland keys such as D. I personally hate the key of D. It's bland, but in an annoying way. It's happy, yet not happy enough. It's not bright or vivid or simple or anything. Just bland. Why am I thinking about this anyway? The piano tends to have a mesmerizing effect on me; I can almost hear the notes as my eyes wander across the pattern of black and white keys.

I rise, tucking my hair behind my ears, and I pause for a moment to look out the window. It's summer here in District Ten, and the huge hibiscus outside the window is blooming like nothing else. A few butterflies are gathered around it, their beautiful, colorful wings contrasting with the simple beauty of the large, white hibiscus flowers. I remember helping my grandmother plant that hibiscus when I was eight or nine, and though she isn't physically with us anymore, I see her every time I see the plant. It's her legacy, of a sort.

Quickly, I slip up the stairs, taking care to tread softly, and slide into my room. Sitting down at my desk, I pick up the next page and begin reading.

 _"He had no time to react before the bright light enveloped him. Everything — the room, the desk, his coffee mug — it all disappeared from sight. He squinted to keep out the blinding light, and for a moment, he felt a twinge of regret before quickly pushing it away. There is-"_

I take my red pen and circle the word "is," and write in the word "was" on the side. This is my brother Brock's new manuscript, and he had asked me to proofread it for him. It works well for the both of us. He knows I'm critical enough of what I read so he's happy, while I'm happy because I get something good to read. Though I just love reading, I don't know if I could ever pick up writing. Moving on…

 _"...no room for regret at this point; the task at hand required his full attention. If-"_

"Deborah!" my older sister Brenda calls from downstairs. She's Brock's twin sister, but they couldn't be more different.

"Yeah?" I reply, getting up from the chair.

"C'mon. We're packing up for the picnic."

"Be right there!" I stack the papers and neatly place my pen down beside the manuscript before rushing down the creaky stairs. When I slide into the kitchen, my mom and my two siblings are already packing everything.

"Deborah," my mom says, not looking up from the bread she's cutting, "Go wash a few apples, will you?"

"Okay," I say, picking a few apples out of the pantry and taking them to the sink, where Brock is washing the dishes. I playfully nudge his arm, and he scoots over to give me a bit more room. "Thanks."

"No problem," he says, placing the last plate on the drying rack. He dries his hand on the yellow towel and pushes up his glasses. "How's the manuscript so far?"

I rub an apple underneath the running water. "It's good so far. There's the occasional problem with tense where I can tell you wrote one sentence and left off."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Not really. I just know your writing style."

"Ah, okay," he says, "Thanks."

"I'll be glad to proofread anytime." I dry the apples on a cloth and place them in the basket. Mom comes up and puts the container of sandwiches in, and she pronounces it done.

Brenda grabs the basket, and we leave the comfort of the house for the bright, hot sun outside. As usual, I take the center seat while Brenda and Brock sit on either side of me. The car backs out of the driveway.

This is a family tradition for us now. Every year, at the beginning of summer, we go out as a family to a new location and have a picnic.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"I found a park down by the low end of the canyon," my dad says, his eyes on the road. He takes a drink of water. "It's supposed to quiet and natural there."

I smile. "That's good." Quiet places are always good for the muse — at least in my experience.

I lean back and wait for us to get there. I really am blessed to have a great family.

—

Hours later, I return to my room and sit down at my desk to resume proofreading. I'm three words in when I put the manuscript down. No, this isn't the time of proofreading. I'm not in that zone right now. I get back up and consider going down to the piano. Nope, no ideas for that as well. So, I sit on my bed and stare into space.

My gaze lands upon a small box that sits on my bookshelf. It's not that big — only about the size of a few small books stacked on top of each other — but to me, it's so valuable. I grab it and take off the cover. It's been a while since I looked in this memory box.

Inside lies a collection of items I've kept for as long as I can remember. There's the first coin I ever got. Some people like to punch holes in them and wear them on strings, but six-year-old Deborah Merlyn was too afraid of losing it. Then, there's an old chipped wooden bracelet that my grandmother gave me before she died. The faded yellow stub of a ticket that was for the first show in the first movie theater in District Ten. I had somehow managed to get myself into first in line, and my younger self was so amazed by all the chairs and everything. The most recent addition is a pin I received when I completed the black level of my martial arts training. I'm not quite sure why they call it the black level, but that day, I felt like I was on top of the world.

I wistfully return the box to its place on my bookshelf. Aye… There's nothing like a good day.

* * *

 **Questions:**

 **1\. How do you feel about Kaleb? Did I keep him realistic? What do you expect from him? What would you like to see from him?**

2\. I had a ball with Deborah's musical side. Did it get a little boring for the non-musicians reading? What do you expect? What would you like to see? **  
**

3\. Favorite/Least Favorite thing about this chapter?

4\. After the Non-Reapings, should I do a chapter for character recaps?

5\. How may of y'all are still in school? Are you also on Winter Break? If so, how are you enjoying it?

* * *

A/N The Non-Reapings are almsot over! My goal is to get both District Eleven and Twelve done by January 5th. Welp, wish me luck!

 **See y'all,**

 **~Joseph**


	16. District Eleven Non-Reaping

**A/N A fast update! At this rate, I'll be done with these Non-Reapings before I go back to school on January 5. Special thank-yous to TranscendentElvenRager and Singlewave for sticking with me despite the hiatus and everything.**

* * *

 _ **Tyson Yarrow, 18, District Eleven Male**_

My eyes meet the cold, brown eyes of the man behind the counter. "Excuse me?"

"You can't shop here," he repeats, "We don't want your business."

"And why not? I need this food. I've got money to pay for it too — money I earned fairly."

"Ha!" the man says, "A likely story. You probably stole it. Now get out before I call the Peacekeepers on you and accuse you of stealing."

I grit my teeth and consider pulling a knife on him. I need this food, and I don't have time to be wandering the streets after dark. Besides, he kind of deserves this...

...but if I get caught, I could be shot. Peacekeepers have little patience with us here — and rightfully so. Being sent to the poorest, dirtiest, rowdiest district in Panem does mess with a person's emotions. Well, I'm sorry we don't have the opportunities you do. Pulling a knife simply isn't worth it. I'll have to see if the baker threw anything out on the way home.

I sigh and leave the store. In District Eleven, either you're black, or everyone hates you. You see, anyone _not_ black in the district is either a rich douchebag that oppresses his employees or a poor beggar that probably hasn't showered in a week. I don't think I need to explain _why_ us non-blacks are hated so much. Now, I decidedly fall into the latter, but it doesn't matter. Both ways, life is hard.

I walk down the dirt road to the bakery, which is conveniently located on the way home. The sun has begun to drop, and I've only got a little bit of time before darkness rules. That's one time I don't want to be caught outside as a non-black. Gangs especially like to pick on people like me, alone and hated by everyone.

As I approach the bakery, I smell the wonderful smell of fresh-baked bread, and my hand reaches into my pocket, fingering the money. I could go in and try to buy some. I take my hand back out, empty-handed. It's not worth it. In a few minutes, the baker will throw away the old bread that he can't sell and he won't eat. I steal another look at the position of the sun. That'd better be soon. I sit at the base of a wall and wait.

As I predicted, the baker comes out a few minutes later with a bag. No doubt all kinds of trash are in there, but I'm certain there's _some_ edible food. Once the man is out of sight, I scamper over and peek inside the dumpster. On top sits the most recent addition to the stinking mess, and when I open it, I'm greeted with a stack of bread. Some at the bottom are moldy, and I wrinkle my nose. Even I won't eat that. Better go hungry than get sick. However, the ones on top are just badly burnt. I can deal with that. I nab a few on top, careful to avoid any that have touched the mold, and steal away, returning "home."

"Home" is a small shelter of scrap I made on the edge of town, beside a wall. It's only big enough to sleep in, but it's fit my needs well for the past month. Most other residents of Eleven aren't willing to wander into this corner of town, so it's relatively safe. I sit down and nibble at the first piece of bread. The sun is actually setting now; it's the only thing beautiful left in this district.

I sigh and stand up. Still holding on to my bread, I wander away from town and look over the fields. The long rows of vegetables are lined up perfectly, a sign of the Capitol's meddling. Every year, when the camera crews come to film my district, they go over the fields and ignore everything else, making the district seem neat and organized.

I close my eyes for a moment, and the memories invade my mind. The bloody knife. The screaming. The tears. The lifeless bodies. With a jolt, I open my eyes. It was a mistake, a decision that should never have been made. When I made that choice, all hope was gone.

"Hey Tyson," a voice comes from behind me.

"Hey Poplin," I say without looking back. Who else would it be? She's the only person in the whole district that will willingly talk to me. "What's up?"

"Nothing really," she says, standing beside me, "How about you?"

"That son of a b**** grocer refused to sell me food today," I say.

"That's a whole new level of cruelty."

"Yeah, as if he wasn't happy with simply cheating me and insulting me."

We stand in silence for a while, watching the sunset, before she breaks it. "Do you ever feel guilty?" she asks in a soft, gentle voice.

"Guilty? For what?" I ask even though I know exactly what she's referring to.

"For… you know. Killing your parents."

I fidget uncomfortably. "No," I say, "They weren't going to make it anyway. They had been stabbed too many times. There was no hope for survival."

"There was _some_ hope," she says.

"The doctor wouldn't have taken them. You know how much he hates anyone who isn't black."

"There are many doctors," she insists.

This argument isn't going to work. I try a different angle. "They deserved it too. All their years of cruelty towards their employees and their kids finally caught up with them."

She bites her lip. "I don't want to believe that that's what you actually think," she admits. One look at her face tells me she doesn't believe me. That's not surprising, considering how I don't believe me either. She looks at me. "I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Bye."

Alone, there's nothing to keep the accusations inside my head away. Guilty. No matter what I tell myself, I know that I'm still guilty.

 _ **Clover Forney, 16, District Eleven Female**_

"Clover Forney," the missus of the children's home calls. "You have a visitor."

I look up from the old, faded textbook. "I do?" Who would visit me, especially at… ten o'clock at night? It dawns on me. "It- It's my dad, isn't it."

She nods solemnly and brushes her dark hair out of her eyes. I silently get up and follow her to the visitation room.

Unlike most kids here in the children's home — a fancy name for the orphanage — I actually have a dad. It might as well be that I don't have one, though. My life might be simpler if he didn't exist.

She opens the door to the room, where my dad sits in a chair on the other side of the old, rotting table. I sit down on the chair on my side. I take a deep breath, and I can smell the constant stench of alcohol that follows him around.

"Dad," I say. In his eyes, I can almost see a glimpse of the man he used to be, the man that sang me to sleep and _cared_. It is gone in a moment.

"Clover," he says in a half-whisper, "You've grown up again."

"Of course," I say, holding my voice steady. "It's been a year since the last time you visited."

"Yes, yes," he says, his thin voice a shell of what it used to be. Heck, _he_ is only a shadow now. He looks even worse than he did last year. I wonder how many nights he didn't sleep, staying up the whole night drinking.

"Why did you want to see me?" I say, trying to get out of this place. Seeing him brings back memories of when our lives first began to take a nosedive. He had been so _happy_ when my mom and sister were still here. When they left, they took him too.

"I just wanted to see my baby girl," he says, "Is that too much to ask?"

"Yes," I say, my voice audibly quavering though I try to hold it steady. "I'm not _your_ girl anymore. You made that decision when you chose that bottle over me."

"Clover," he says, I almost feel bad for this, but I know this is his fault. I shouldn't feel bad for someone else's mistakes. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm sure that both of happier without each other. I remind you too much of them, and I can't stand staying with an alcoholic that doesn't care about me." I get out of my chair and push it under the table. "Tell me you're sorry when you stop drinking."

I look back at the missus, and she nods, knowing that I'm out. She opens the door for me, and I leave that _horrid_ room.

I start off walking, but I speed up until I've run the whole way to my room. I slam the door behind me and collapse in my chair by the desk. My fingers twitch uncontrollably.

 _Stop. You've put this in the past. You've moved on._

Instinctively, I reach out for a piece of scrap paper and begin to fold and tear it until it's a perfect square. Fold it in half. Flip it over. Tuck the corner in. I don't even have to think about the motions now.

 _The past is in the past. Your dad doesn't bother you anymore_.

I make another fold in the dirty paper.

 _Take a deep breath. You're under control._

I open the bottom and set it down on the desk. It's a paper boat, and a nice one at that, if I may say so myself. I grab another bit of paper. Here goes another one. And another. And another.

The door creaks open, and I pause to look up. Briony slowly steps in. She's one of the seven girls I share this rooms with, but it's safe to say that she's the only one I really care about.

"Are you okay?" she says.

"I'm fine," I say. I take a deep breath. "I'm under control now."

She looks at my fleet of paper boats, sitting on the desk. "No, you're not fine."

I sigh. "Bri, you know me too well."

"Want to talk about it?" she attempts. She smiles weakly.

"No," I say. _I never do_ , I silently add. I finish this boat and move the boats to the corner of the desk, clearing enough room to study. It's a whole lot of organic chemistry.

Bri looks over at the textbook. "I'm not even reading the words and I'm confused." She sighs and pulls over a chair. "Clover, please take a break. You'll work yourself to death. You're already in… the most advanced classes?"

"I like it that way," I say softly, "It gives me a chance for the future."

"I know it's deeper than that," she says, "What is it? What do you want from this? Success? Fulfillment?"

"I don't know," I admit, "But please, let me study."

She sighs. "Okay. Imma go prepare for bed." She looks back on her way to the bathroom. "If you need to talk…"

"I know," I say, "Thanks."

I go back to reading on the practical uses of the combustive properties of hemiacetals, and the next time I look up, it's almost eleven, which is when the lights go out. We're lucky to have reliable electricity. I hear it's because we are connected to the same system as Victor's Village, but I wouldn't know anything about this.

Sighing, I get up and go to bed.

I stare at the bottom of the upper bunk above me, where Bri sleeps. Maybe she's right. I'm obviously not only thinking about future success. If I were, I wouldn't be studying this; there are easier ways to be successful. But what am I really looking for?

* * *

 **Questions:**

 **1\. There was a lot of "He's not 'black' " when Tyson was revealed on the blog. Does he make a lot more sense now? Is it a reasonable explanation? How do you feel about him?**

 **2\. What are your thoughts on Clover? How will she fare under the high-stress conditions of the Games?**

 **3\. Was it a bad idea to bring up race? Did I cross a line?**

 **4\. Do you have anyone you hope to be the victor? If so, who?**

 **5\. New Year coming up soon! Personally, I don't tend to do well with my resolutions I make. Do y'all make resolutions? How well do you do in keeping them?**

* * *

 **A/N Expect the District Twelve Non-Reapings to be here soon! Also, from the two reviews on the last chapter, it seems that character recaps would be very helpful, so that will come up after that.**

 **See y'all,**

 **~Joseph**


	17. District Twelve Non-Reaping

**A/N Aaaaaaand…. The Non-Reapings are over! Done with! Complete! In the past! Yay! Unfortunately, the second semester of school starts tomorrow for me, so updates won't be as frequent… probably. Y'all can always hope.**

 **I do apologize if this chapter is just a _bit_ rushed. I wantedd to get it out before school began**

 _ **Ezra Robins, 18, District Twelve Male**_

"Yes sir," I say with a smile, "I'll clean this place out and be gone in about thirty minutes."  
The merchant man nods. I can tell that he's holding back a look of disgust. I just came from my work hours in the mines, so I'm not exactly the spitting image of cleanliness (Is anything in District Twelve?). "Thank you," he says, "How much do I pay you for this?"

"Just ten," I say.

"Okay. Come find me afterward," he says, "and I'll pay you."

"Got it."

Mr. Whatever-it-was goes back indoors and leaves me with his shed. You'd think that I'd know his name at this point — after all, he regularly asks me to do odd jobs — but I don't bother. Who cares about them anyway? As long as I get my money, I'm happy. That's all merchants are good for.

I look around the small, dirty shed and then down at my cleaning supplies. Welp, I'd better get to work. He probably hasn't cleaned this place out in years, if ever. The floor, shelves, and even parts of the walls are covered in coal dust and regular dust, and tools are all over everything. Buckets and boxes and stacked haphazardly in the back; it's a wonder it hasn't completely fallen apart. I wonder how much money I could make off the things in here. Judging by the looks of it, he hasn't used most of these in years. He wouldn't miss them if I look a few things or so. But first, I need to get everything in order. Then he'll have a reason to pay me.

First, I take all the tools out and stack the paint cans and boxes outside the shed so I can clean the inside out. Armed with a spray bottle and an old rag, I scrub the walls and shelves until they're clean. Next, I mop the floor. That wasn't too bad. Now for the boxes.

When I look inside the first one, I find a collection of old, worthless woodcarvings, probably only here because of some emotional attachment. They're completely useless to me, though, because they won't sell for much money. I take the box and neatly place it in the corner. In the next box, I find a metal necklace. That'll work. I slip it into my pocket and double check the box for any other valuables before placing it on the previous box. Onto the rest.

By the time I finish, I have the necklace, as well as a few bottles of alcohol. I'm not sure what they were doing here, but they were in the most recent box. This should get me enough money for food for the next few days.

I step back and look at my work. The boxes and paint cans are stacked neatly along the back wall, while the tools lay on shelves and hang from walls. Now to get the mister.

I knock on the door, which he promptly opens. After a quick inspection (He doesn't trust us "Seam trash," and for good reason), he hands me a bill and wishes me good luck. I smile. He doesn't suspect a thing as he locks the door. It's interesting. He doesn't trust us as a whole, yet he trusts me enough to clean out his shed. Whatever reason, it's a paradox that works in my favor. I wave goodbye and leave.

As soon as I'm out of sight, I jog to the Center, our name for the new black market that grew after the Hob became subject to random raids for being a rebel base. It's located in the middle of a huge complex of storage facilities, and it's almost ironic as that building could house over half the district, if the Capitol would only let us use it, but of course it's "symbolic" or something, and that, my friends is why we have homeless people. Oh, and also because the merchants are sapping our money. It's only fair that we take some back.

This afternoon, the Center is fairly quiet. I stroll over to Jina's stall/crates of random things. Unlike most of the people selling things here, Jina, an old, mischievous lady, is a permanent seller here. After she broke her left arm, she became useless in the mines, and she's been here ever since.

"Good afternoon," she says when she sees me approaching, "What've you got for me today?"

I put on a smile, though it's the last thing I want to do after a long day of work. She pays more to people she likes. "Well," I say, "I've got this necklace." I hold it out.

She carefully inspects it. "Not bad, not bad. It's not worth much, though."

I nod. "Yes, I know. That's why I also have this." I hold up the two bottles of alcohol.

She smiles a toothless grin. "Now _that's_ what I'm used to seeing from you." She digs around in her pocket. "I'll give you fourty."

Fourty. That's a little more than I expected. "It's all yours," I say, taking the money, "Thank you so much."

"You're welcome." She smiles. "Now how's that brother of yours… what was his name? He hasn't been around lately."

"Oliver? He's doing great. He's seeing that Washton girl."

"Oh, that's wonderful," she says, "That reminds me…"

"I'm very sorry," I say, trying to get out of sticking around for her stories which I've heard a couple hundred times. "I don't have much time. I just wanted to stop by and give you what I got."

"Well then. See you soon."

I rush out of the Center and head home, my mind going over a list of things to do. First there's homework. I'm graduating soon, so I won't have to worry about it anymore, but for now, I've got a lot of work. There's also-

I crash into someone, and I find myself staring into cold, blue eyes.

"Seam trash," the man mutters.

"Merchant filth," I reply.

He grabs me by the shoulders. "Don't talk to me like that."

 _Fine_ , I silently communicate, staring back at him with narrowed eyes. _I don't need words to express my disgust for you_.

He shoves me backwards and leaves with a grunt. Those merchants. They think they rule the world because they have a bit more money than we do. When the day comes, we'll take back District Twelve. It'll belong to those of us that actually work for it. Oh, I've been training for that day. Little do those pigs know that all over the district, we have members preparing to reclaim our district from them.

Someday.

 _ **Keesa Ambel, 15, District Twelve Female**_

The sun shines brightly through the school windows today, after several days of rain. The pool's probably near full — if not full — and I'll have to go for a swim as soon as I can. I slowly walk down the school hall beside Lux and Briette.

"But seriously," Lux complains, pausing to brush aside his relatively long, jet-black hair. I think he's getting a haircut soon. "As it wasn't bad enough that they're always lording it over us, as if they're so much better than we are just because they have money and their blue eyes. I'm like, 'Just leave us alone. We don't need your noses in our business.' "

"You're not wrong," Briette says in her soft, gentle voice. "But don't overdo it. This probably isn't the best place to talk about it." I look around. Though most of us in this school are Seam kids, a few merchants are floating around.

As if on cue, a better-fed, muscular body casually pushes me to the side and puts his arm around Briette.

"Excuse me," I snap.

He turns his head, and his blue eyes stare back at me. Callio. My nose still tingles from the time he broke it. "You're excused," he says with a smirk, "I'll do what I want to."

Lux, indignant shoves him away as Briette pushes his arm off of her. "Stay away from my sister," Lux demands, "You merchant _pigs_."

"Pigs?" Callio says, "You're the one that'll eat anything."

"Stay away," I say, backing Lux and raising my voice. We definitely have more of us, and it'll be the best for us if I can get the support of the people around us. "No one likes it when you try to act all snugly with one of us. Get Out." A few heads turn.

He looks around, quickly noticing that he's the one outnumbered here. Trying to keep his dignity, he stalks off.

"That's exactly what I was talking about!" Lux huffs, "Merchant kids think they can do whatever they want."

I laugh bitterly. "Welcome to District Twelve. If only someone would put them in their place — Oh wait, they practically control everything here."

Briette sighs. "Don't be so negative. Life's bad enough; you don't have to make it worse."

I nod, knowing she's right. We've reached the school doors. "Well, I'll see y'all tomorrow."

I open the doors into the yard outside, and I call for my younger sisters, Netta and Canary so that we can go home.

"Sorry, I'm a bit late today," I apologize.

"It's fine," Netta, thirteen, says, "What happened?" Gosh, she's just like Dad — outspoken, loud, yet caring.

"Nothing really," I say and put on a smile, though it really was something. "I just got lost chatting." I inwardly sigh in relief when Netta's face seems to relax. "How were y'all's days?"

Netta's face brightens. "Well, I thought it was going to suck because of that test today, but I feel pretty good about it. Besides, I'm sure that Sikes Thornes failed it, so that's even better." Sikes is another merchant kid, one that constantly giving her trouble. It's sad how they've already developed so much hate.

"How about you?" I ask Canary.

"Good," she says, a quiet smile on her face.

"How so?"

"We have music class now."

"That's wonderful!" I say. Canary has a singing voice unparalleled by any of us, so it's wonderful that she gets some experience in this.

Once we reach home, a three-room building, I get them started on homework before preparing dinner. Mom and Dad are both working late tonight. Our neighbor hunts a bit, and he shared a bit of meat with us. I can use that to make soup to go with the tesserae bread. Bread and soup. It isn't much, but it's filling and easy. We also have a few wild onions I found growing beside the electric fence, so i'll throw them in as well. It'll be half-decent tonight.

I quickly put the knife away after chopping up the onions. My brother Jacob will be home from the babysitter soon, and since he's a five-year-old, it's always a good idea to keep sharp objects out of the way.

"Keesa?" Netta calls.

I rush over. "Yes?"

"Do you know how to do this problem?" she says, pointing to one of her math problems.

A two-step equation. "Okay…" I give her a quick explanation, making sure she gets it, before finishing up the last bit of preparations for dinner. Once Jacob gets back, we'll eat. After that, I'll work on my homework.

I really don't understand the point of homework sometimes, or even school past basic elementary stuss. If they just want us to be coal miners, what's the point? All we really need to know is how to read and write. Everything else mostly doesn't get used. Maybe they just want to provide an alternative to putting kids to work in the mines. If that's the case, I can't complain.

I put the "kitchen" side of the room in order and wipe down the counter. Just because we're poor doesn't mean we have to live like pigs. After looking around to make sure everything's in place, I sit down for a few moments of rest.

Someone knocks on the door. Jacob's here. I take a deep breath. Back to work.

 **Questions:**

 **1\. Thoughts on Ezra? How do you like him? Predictions?**

 **2\. Thoughts on Keesa? How do you feel about her personality? Predictions?**

 **3\. Likes/Dislikes?**

 **4\. What do you look forward to in the new year?**

 **A/N The next chapter will be a character recap, since most of you wanted one, but I'll try to fit it into a reaping chapter so that we don't spend too much time on this. I really don't know when the next update will be, but it should be within a week.**

 **See y'all,**

 **~Joseph**


	18. Reapings

**A/N The Reapings are here! I wrote different POVs at different times, so the quality may vary. Sorry if you feel that yours was worse; I don't mean anything towards you or your tribute. It just means that that POV just happened to be the one I wrote as I was beginning to fall asleep.**

 **Also, I'm not apologetic about the extra week I took. This chapter is almost three times my regular length, so duh, it's going to take longer.**

* * *

 **District One**

 _ **Onyx Avington, 18**_

After taking a shower, I look out of my window and gaze up at the dark clouds rolling in overhead. It's going to rain. Great. That's exactly what I wanted as my send-off, sheets of pouring rain. If nature wants to be annoying, then so be it.

I leave the window and get dressed in something presentable. I don't want to waste anything _too_ formal on the reaping because it'd be hard to run in, but whatever I wear will be thrown away after I get on the train. Why is this even such a big deal? Sure, I want to look good for the cameras — their impression of me begins today — but there's no need to stress over this.

 _Rest, Onyx. You've trained yourself for years. Nothing fazes you._

Then why am I nervous? Perhaps it is the idea of going into a completely new experience. I've never left District One — nor did I ever expect to until a few months ago, when I made the decision to volunteer. My father was pleased; the idea of tearing them down from within made him smile. I treasure his smiles; you know you've done something really right when he does that.

There's a knock on the door.

"Onyx," my father says, his voice stern as always. "Let's go." I'm almost a bit disappointed that he isn't showing _any_ emotion. I don't need much, but he could at least treat me as another human for once.

Oh well. I can't work on his life; I can only seek to improve my own. I straighten my tie and wink at myself in the mirror. You'll be okay.

 _ **Splendor Boucher, 18**_

I warily glance at the dark sky. It's not raining yet, but it'd better not rain until the Reaping is over. It would be horrible, ruining this dress, all the decorations, and the show for the Capitol. Rain completely dampens the mood, and-

Ugh. Just perfect. Even from here, I can hear the bickering of some of the other girls, trying to get the ideal spot for volunteering. Seriously, you'd think they have some self-respect.

"Well, well, well," Iluma says, coming up behind me. I press my lips together. "You're here."

"Of course," I say, "I'm not going to miss a Reaping. Not only is it illga-"

"And you're wearing… shoes made for running?" she says, interrupting me. How rude! "Are you planning on volunteering?"

Please… rid me of her. _Splendor, hold it together. You're better than she is. You won't have to put up with her for much longer._

I fake a smile. "Yes, I am. I originally wasn't, but I quickly saw that this was the right decision."

"Well then, good luck," she says sarcastically. Or course she doesn't wish me luck; she'd kill me right here and now if she could.

 _Thank you_ , I silently reply, _I'll take it._

But I won't need any luck to make it to the stage. Iluma Armin will weep in the dust.

...That was a little _too_ rude for me.

* * *

 **District Two**

 _ **Slate Valour, 18**_

"You will volunteer!' my father says, hammering it in.

"Yes, father," I say, "I will. You've told me enough times that I can recite it in my sleep."

He grunts and picks up the kitchen knife. "And if you don't make it…. Well, don't come home, or else I'll kill you."

"Yes, father," I say, unflinching.

"Good. Now go train for an hour."

I look to the clock. It's eight in the morning, but the reaping doesn't start until ten thirty. It works out just about right. I hate it when he's right.

As I approach the Center, my heart sinks. Reporters. Most of them are District Two, though a few seem to be from the Capitol. Still, as bad as they are, they aren't as bad as my father, so I brave the mess of people.

I expected the plow through them. That was my first miscalculation.

Someone shoves a microphone in front of my face. A Capitol reporter. I can't turn this one down; this could help my odds in the Games.

"Slate Valour," she says, "As the son of a Victor, do you plan to volunteer?"

"Ha!" I say. "Of course! It wouldn't matter who my parents were; I'd still go for it." I flash a cocky smile at a reporter on the side. Years of practice before cameras have made this easy.

"Does your Dad give you pressure to volunteer? Is he forcing you?"

What kind of idiot is this? Would anyone truthfully answer "yes" to that one?

"Pshaw!" I say as if it were a dumb question — which it was. "Of course not! The Games have always been that the forefront of my mind, and the day has finally come."

"What is life like as a Victor's son?"

"It's the best thing in the world, " I say, "I wake up each morning as I know that no one's taking me down." That didn't come out correctly. I always slip up some way or another when I'm using my public persona, as opposed to how easily poetry flows when I write.

Another reporter approaches. I inwardly sigh and smile for the camera.

 _ **Animata Deeksha, 18**_

As I walk down the aisle to the section for eighteen-year-olds, I overhear bickering.

"I was here first!" a shrill voice says. "Get out!"

"No!" another girl replies, "It's _my_ spot! I deserve this more than you commoner!"

I sigh. Some people in District Two feel so entitled; it's obnoxious. Taking your place isn't a hard concept to get. That escort doesn't care who's up on stage as long as it's a volunteer, and surprise, you don't have to be in some magical spot to make it to the stage. Just take your place, wherever that may be, and try your hardest. Heck, that's all I'm going to do. I stand at a spot near the edge of the section, supposedly the worst position, but in reality, there is a way around this. Dashing down the middle may be the fastest route, but it's the will be going that way, so anyone trying to use that path will quickly get dragged down by other people. On the other hand, this corner is devoid of any other volunteers, who are entered on the other side. I'll have no competition on my way up to the stage.

The escort begins her speech, and I ready myself to run.

For myself. For District Two. For my family. Mom, Dad, thank you for everything you've done for me. I'll make you proud.

* * *

 **District Three**

 _ **Render Axum, 17**_

My family leaves as the Peacekeeper beckons to them. The time is up. I've been in here for an hour. So much for my hopes. Admenta didn't show up, Why can't I seem to give up on her. Something inside has always told me that I had no hope with her, but I won't accept it. Now, I'm forced to accept that everything that mattered to me doesn't matter anymore. Focus and work hard.

Miss Glass, as she prefers to be called, the escort, comes to the door.

"It's time to go!" she says clapping her hands. "Let's go to the train!"

I get up and she grabs my hand as if I were a toddler that might get lost. Normally, I like to think of myself as a patient person, but she's going to be a challenge.

"Hurry hurry hurry! Apple is already there. We're all waiting for you!"

I sigh and follow. Flanked by peacekeepers, we walk to the train station.

"There's the train!" she says as if I couldn't tell. I've heard that Capitolites have begun to understand us District people more in the recent years under President Romulus Snow, but this escort seems to think that I have the brain capacity of an animal. This will be a long ride...

 _ **Apple Kesari, 17**_

As I sign in, I look for any sign of Velleius, but then I realize that I can't see through any of the helmets. Last night, he stopped by the cafe where I work, and we talked after my shift ended. It was mainly a lot of "It'll be alright" and "Everything will be okay" and "Calm down," and though I know that it really shouldn't make me feel better — my odds still aren't that great — it did make me feel a little better. I don't know how; he has a way of calming me down and making me feel safe. His little boy is lucky to have him for a father.

He's come by almost regularly every week ever since we first met, and though he won't ever be able to fill that hole in me my dad left when he died from a Capitol bombing, he's awfully close to doing so.

The escort, Misti-Laydie Glass, ascends the stage, and I feel that freezing terror again. Don't pick me, don't pick me, don't pick me. I've been careful to avoid rebellion and do what the Capitol wants. I've followed all the rules. There's no reason for them to target me.

"Apple Kesari!"

It's me.

* * *

 **District Four**

 _ **Delmar Martin Jr., 16**_

My head reels as Dorsal leaves the room. At first, my parents came in, telling me that they loved me. My dad seemed to insist that the Capitol would help those that have supported it, but there are quite a few holes in that. If anything, the Capitol audience would sympathize with One, Two, Seven, and Ten before me. That's no good. Then, Dewey came in, screaming at me to abandon "that Capitol s***" and try to fight. That doesn't work either. Just look at Digit, the District Three Male, and Naia, the girl from Four, from last year. They were chased around the arena by the Gamemakers until alligator mutts got the guy and Creek, our loyalist tribute last year, killed the girl. Rebels don't live. Period. After him, Dorsal came in spewing Capitol propaganda so hardcore it still hurts. Am I the only person that still sees things clearly? Has everyone else gone blind?

The door opens again, and Edlin comes in by himself.

"Lynne is outside," he says, "She wanted to have you to herself."

I nod. "And what golden advice do you have for me?"

He laughs nervously. "I don't have anything, really. I don't know what you should do. Burn everything else down, I guess."

The corner of my closed lips raises in a light grin. "Thanks," I say. "Watch Lynne for me, okay?"

He grins. "I will. I've been doing it for longer than you have."

"Okay."

After he leaves, Lynne, his sister, comes in. After a few tense footsteps, she runs to me, and I welcome her with open arms, embracing her and holding her tightly.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

"Confused," I admit. "What am I supposed to believe about the Capitol? Everyone - well, everyone except Edlin — seems to think that either sticking to the Capitol or rebelling will solve my life problems."

"Don't listen to them," she says. She pauses. "The Games aren't about whether you're a good citizen or not. You just have to stay alive. So please, ignore then and focus on staying alive, okay?"

"Okay."

"I trust you. You won't make any stupid decisions."

 _ **Harbor Douglas, 17**_

"Harbor Douglas!" the escort calls. "Sweetie, where are you?"

I was called. I hesitate for a moment. Come on, Harbor. Pull yourself together. Pull. Yourself. Together. I put on my winning smile and walk up to the stage.

Smiling hurts sometimes, especially now, but I refuse to let them win. I refuse to let them see me crumble. As I look over the crowd of teens, the parents behind them, and the rest of the District Four citizens, I can see looks of recognition. _It's the slut_ , they must be thinking. _We don't need people like her in our District._ Down in the eighteen-year-old section, Wade stands, a huge smile on his face. He wants to see me broken, like most of the district. He's tried to break me for so long, but I've held strong so far. I'm not breaking now.

I stare Wade in the eyes and flash a smile. He narrows his eyes. Ha, didn't expect that, did you?

 _You are going to die_ , he says wordlessly, knowing that I can understand him just fine though his eyes.

I tilt my head and smile back at him. _No, I'm not. And I'll come back._

I have to return. I have to win. This won't break me. I'm coming out of this, firm and strong.

Except, when I return, I won't be the prey. I'll be the predator.

 **District Five**

 _ **Aaron Aileen Jr., 18**_

I get in line to sign in for the Reaping. Ahead of me, the kids wince as their fingers are pricked, but I know I'll barely feel it. Peacekeeper training makes that tiny prick feel like nothing. However, there's no way for most of these kids to have any sort of training, and I kinda feel bad for them. Gosh, I'm talking as if I were much older than everyone else here.

When I get to the front of the line, I find Thora, my fellow Peacekeeper, signing us in.

"This is awkward," I murmur.

She catches it and smiles. "Final time. After this, it'll all be good."

I go to my section and look around at the Peacekeepers surrounding the square. Though all the helmets are on, I'm pretty sure the one immediately on the right of the stage is Barak; that's where he told me he'd be stationed. Next year, I'll be standing in one of those spots, the kids looking back at me in fear, completely oblivious to the fact that I'm pretty much their peer. It almost scares me sometimes when I see the effect my Peacekeeper suit has on others. I look for Annora, but I don't see her. I have some questions on electrical engineering to ask her when this is over. It'll be the life, having both the credit with the Capitol because of my Peacekeeper status and the knowledge to transfer into a Capitol school.

For now, I'll stick to doing my job.

 _ **Raffaella Silva, 17**_

"Raffaella Silva!"

My name echoes around the square, bouncing off the walls of the nearby buildings and hitting me with full force. I used to wonder what I'd feel if I got reaped. I always thought that I would be in disbelief or even panic. However, I don't feel anything. Lifelessly, I move into the aisle and take slow, deliberate steps up to the stage. Mrs. Escort asks me something, but all I can do is stare at her blankly. What is she saying? Oh, any words for the audience.

I know I should speak. I know I should try to look happy and fake. I can't. I can't even bring myself to untighten my lips. I force myself to focus in time to hear Mrs. Escort call the name of the male tribute.

"Aaron Aileen!"

A buff, muscular guy pushes his way through the eighteen-year-olds. He looks vaguely familiar… Oh. Oh. That's it. It's him. He brought me the bad news the day Dante was in an accident. That's funny... He was in a Peace-

He's a Peacekeeper? Can District citizens even be Peacekeepers?

I realize what I'm thinking. I've just gotten picked, but my mind is already whirring. I know I look like I've given up.

No, I haven't.

* * *

 **District Six**

 _ **Diesel Wing, 18**_

I wake up on the old couch in the junkyard, completely soaked. S***. It rained last night. IIt didn't do this the night before, or the night before. The one night I choose to spend out here is the night it rains. Great. Thankfully, everything that would've been in my pocket I kept under the couch. I originally put it there so that anyone trying to rob me would find nothing, but hey, it works well as protection against rain.

I look up at the sky for the first time in a long time. The blue sky only appears in the few hours after a heavy rain, when all the smoke is gone from the air, which is clean and crisp. Ah… this would be a perfect last day. There's not much smoke, the sky is blue, and all is right with the world.

Oh wait, there's the Reaping. I grudgingly get up and light a cigarette. I should get going. If I cared, I'd go home and change into something nice, but really, who cares? This isn't a fashion show (though it'd be the blandest fashion show in history if it were one). So if I don't go home… I cut out an hour of unnecessary work. I have time before the reaping. Maybe I'll just stare at the sky.

 _ **Christina Ford, 17**_

Reaping Day is always tough for us street kids. We're supposed to "dress-up" and look presentable, right? Try doing that when you can't even scrape together enough money for plain clothes. Stealing clothes is also different from stealing food. Food is easy. There aren't size restrictions with food. Clothes… even if you manage to steal a decent pair, chances are that that nice shirt is way too large or too small.

Still, we manage. Arnold's clothes were the easiest to find. He's practically a man, so it wasn't that bad. It was a lot worse for me and Sarah, though we managed to find some old, torn dresses that Sarah fixed up.

As we go to the check-in table, we pass a few of the new Peacekeepers from Two, clustered together, talking and laughing. These are the ones I can't stand. They're undisciplined and rough. One gestures in our direction, and the rest turn to look at me. I stare at them back, narrowing my eyes. Yes, I'm quiet. Yes, I look shy. But no, I'm not that easily intimidated, and no, I'm not scared of you.

They just turn back and laugh. I bite my lip to keep myself from doing anything stupid.

Augh...

* * *

 **District Seven**

 _ **Pembroke Thompson, 17**_

I volunteered. Done. I look around the fancy visitation room I'm in, waiting for my mom and little sister to come in and tell me that I was suicidal, that I shouldn't have done it, that I should've stayed. Still, I want them to be here. I could use a hug right now.

The door opens, but instead of my family, Cassia storms in. Cassia. The b**** that ruined my life. How dare she come visit me!

I open my mouth to speak, but she beats me to it and screams at me. "How dare you volunteer!"

"How dare _I_?" I say, my cheeks burning with anger. "How dare you! You ruined my life, you liar!"

Her eyes blaze with fire. "You left me!"

"So? What makes you think that that gives you a reason to make up lies about me?" I start to mimic her. " 'He- He hurt me! I said no, but he-' " I pause for a brief moment. "What did I ever do to you? Tell you that you can't always have your way in life? I told you it wasn't working out!"

"It was!"

"Oh yeah, for _you_ it was. It was always, 'Pembroke, give me this. Pembroke, give me that. Pembroke, I don't have time for you. Pem-' "

"How dare you insult me! You are no better than a rapist!"

I lunge at her and pin her to the wall. "Really? You're still trying to do this to me? You're a manipulative, lying b****!"

The door opens, and two Peacekeepers pull me off of her. She walks to the door, but she looks back for a moment. "You aren't getting anything from District Seven this year," she spits. "I'll be sure of that."

The Peacekeepers leave after her. I try to catch my breath.

My mom comes in and wraps me in a hug, crying. I sigh and close my eyes. Just end it, please. I'm done.

 _ **Minisa Amaral, 18**_

I stand, watching the escort open the slip of paper and call out the name of the female. It'll probably be some young girl, intended to force out a volunteer.

"June Quercera."

Whoops, I was wrong. A girl, probably from the poor end of the district, steps out and strides to the stage, her head held high as if saying to the Capitol audience. _I'm not afraid. I'm from District Seven and proud. You don't intimidate me one bit._ Even she's brave.

However, as the cameras zoom in on her face, she rapidly blinks a few times and presses her lips together. Nope, she's just another scared girl, doing what she knows she needs to do to survive. She probably is from a poor family, being a major financial pillar of her family. Most of the poor families in Seven put immense pressure on the kids because the parents' incomes aren't enough. Without her, her family might starve.

This may be my final chance to prove to myself, to Izzy, and to my family that I _am_ brave before I go into a mundane job, working the same hours and tasks every day, with no chance to show everyone that I _am_ brave.

I raise my hand and shout. "I volunteer."

* * *

 **District Eight**

 _ **Serge Foulard, 17**_

I hear my name called, but I don't see the people or the stage or the escort or the mayor or any of this. I see my world fall apart. I've worked for many long years to make money and climb my way to the top. I had an offer to the Capitol school for higher education, and I had bargained my way into a scholarship. I had everything I wanted. Everything was going according to plan. The world just had to throw a wrench into everything.

Every step I take, more of my world crumbles. I know that no one will volunteer; we haven't had a volunteer in over a hundred years. I climb to the top of the stage and look back at the people. My gaze meets a few of theirs, and they look away.

Well, this isn't a time to give up. I refuse to stand by as everything I worked for falls to pieces. I'm going to go to that d***ed Capitol, alright, and I'm going to rebuild everything. I will work myself to death — figuratively, of course — until life goes right.

I am going to win, and not only the Hunger Games.

I'm going to beat fate.

 _ **Taffeta Mitchell, 15**_

Being reaped is an interesting feeling. At first, it feels like nothing, as if you somehow mistook someone else's name for your own. Then, when all eyes are on you and you realize that you actually were the one called, it's like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of you. When you stand on stage, staring into the cameras that seem to bore into your soul, your whole body goes numb, and it feels like a dream. That's what I feel right now. Is it a dream? It has to be a dream; this is every Panemian teen's nightmare before the day of the reaping. I bite the inside of my cheek, hoping that the pain will wake me up. Nope. Not happening. This isn't a dream, something I can escape from.

I watch as the guy is called. This feels like one of those bad TV shows that are occasionally on the television. I almost wish it were one because I might not do so badly in one. I look up at the big screen, and I notice that I don't look half bad. That's right, this can't be the end.

It can't be.

* * *

 **District Nine**

 _ **Allio Spottedberg, 13**_

I button down the itchy, white shirt. As if Reaping Day wasn't terrifying enough, they had to make us dress up for this. That's kinda like… what was the saying again? Something about adding salt to injuries — or was it insult to injuries? Nope, I'm no good with these.

I step out of the bathroom, and Fennel looks me up and down before giving me a light smile.

"You feel ready?" he asks.

I rub my neck. "I don't really know. I don't know what to think about it."

"How so?"

"It's not a like a clock," I say, explaining my point, "A clock is easy to understand. You take it apart and put it back together. It works a certain way. The Hunger Games… I don't know. I can't figure it out."

He nods. "I understand. You'll figure it out sooner or later. You'll be okay."

"I hope so."

"Let's get going."

When we approach the square, I notice Cape walking as well, dragging his feet. He glances in our direction and notices us, but he doesn't bother us today. That's one thing I like about Reaping Day. For one day, it's not Loyal versus Rebel. We're all District Nine, unified.

 _ **Ryzee Fleet, 15**_

Kezia is quiet today. Not that she's usually talkative, but on Reaping Day, she's quieter than usual, if that is even possible.

"Don't worry!" I say as we walk to the Reaping, "The odds of you being are tiny!"

She weakly attempts to smile. "Thanks for trying, but someone always is picked, and that person's odds were tiny too."

"Stop being so negative," I say, "You'll be fine! Besides, the entire point of the Hunger Games is to scare you. That's it! There's nothing more to it."

"People _do_ actually die…"

"Look, two people from our district are killed every year from the Hunger Games, right? Now look at how many die from alcohol, or the factories, or old age, or sickness, or, or— Or anything else! You're more likely to die from walking to school than from the Hunger Games."

She presses her lips together, deep in thought. "That's a good point."

"Exactly. Stop worrying so mu-"

My hand hits a passerby as I'm waving it around, I quickly apologize and hurry off.

Kezia smiles, this time genuinely. "Thanks, really."

"Anytime," I say, "Really, I mean it."

* * *

 **District Ten**

 _ **Kaleb Sirius, 16**_

No one volunteers for the girl. She seems strong, and I think I've seen her before. When it comes down to one-on-one without any weapons, she's the best in her year. Something about martial arts.

Now for the boys. I had originally expected two young kids to be picked to force out two volunteers, but since a seventeen-year-old has been picked, any guy's fair game. That simplifies things. I had assumed that I'd watch a twelve-year-old walk up to the stage and have to decide whether to volunteer or not. I even briefly considered volunteering. My family could use the money. The escort calls out a name. To volunteer, or not to volunteer?

Oh, wait. She called me. I look around. Nope, there's not another Kaleb Sirius. Shaking, I venture into the aisle and step up onto the stage. C'mon, Kaleb, give a smile. It's not over yet. I bite my lip. Fine, no smile. It's still better than breaking down. I give a sideways glance to my district partner, who's watching me as well. She seems nice enough. We could work this out. Don't count us out yet.

 _ **Deborah Merlyn, 17**_

As I look down at everyone down the stage, I get the sinking feeling that no one will volunteer. Of course. Why would anyone volunteer for me? They know that I've trained. They know that I'm capable enough. They've seen me wrestle and fight and hone my weapon skills. All those skills should make me feel better, but it doesn't. When I think about the Hunger Games, I flinch inside. Just imagining the fighting and the bloodshed make me shudder.

No, I can't allow myself to think this way. They tell us that the one thing you shouldn't think about first is death and failure because that'll make you depressed. I like to add that you also shouldn't think about what you can't do, and it's time to follow my own advice. Focus on what I can do. I can use weapons (though I prefer not to), and I'm best at martial arts. I'm a decent speaker, and I know how to use words. I can tell a story — one major hidden skill of the Hunger Games. Reading my brother's writing has given me a deeper insight into how stories work.

However, all these skills can't solve my central problem. I'm not a violent fighter; I specialize in the arts. What do I do?

* * *

 **District Eleven**

 _ **Tyson Yarrow, 18**_

As I wait in the visitation room, I realize that I don't know why I volunteered. I'm not even sure who I volunteered for. It was a blur, going up on impulse. Maybe it was because my life wasn't worth anything. I grew up in a trashy home, I lived in trash, and I would spend the rest of my life with trash. I stopped trying to improve my situation a long time ago. Don't judge me for giving up. You try working against pretty much everyone in one of the most populated districts of Panem, where everyone hates you and either is out to get to or treats you worse than an animal.

Or maybe I volunteered because I don't care enough about my life. If I'm going to die anyway, why not shorten the wait? It's not like I can get anywhere in life.

Or maybe I volunteered because I do care. If I have any hope to be anything in this world, it's to win the Hunger Games. That's the only way out. It's not a great way out, but when you have no other options, it doesn't seem too bad.

But maybe I volunteered because it's what I deserve. Sure, my parents were worthless scum that didn't give a **** about me, and of course, they were bleeding to death anyway, but they had seen me. Mom had even smiled before I stabbed her and ended her life moments before I ended dad's.

Whatever the reason is, my life just got a lot harder.

 _ **Clover Forney, 16**_

Reaping Day. I wonder if the missus hates me every year at this time because her paper supplies always drop the week before the Reaping. My pile of paper boats is growing little too tall, even by my standards. It covers most of my desk, and I don't have much room to work with. I feel a little guilty for wasting all this paper, but I'd rather feel a bit guilty then be crushed under anxiety.

I leave my room and go to eat breakfast, and I take a bowl of grits and sit in my corner. A lot of the other girls are huddled together, talking about clothes and boys in an attempt to make themselves feel better and distract themselves from the reaping. I used to do that too, but it never made sense to me. I always preferred to get my mind on something useful, such as my studies. Speaking of which…

I quickly finish eating, go back to my room, and grab my textbook. Now this is something productive. I aim to be the very best, and every moment used on something unimportant is a moment wasted, even moments on Reaping Day.

Please… don't pick me in the Reaping.

* * *

 **District Twelve**

 _ **Ezra Robins, 18**_

The Reaping will begin soon, but I'm not in the Town Square. In fact, I'm quite a few streets down, but it'll all be okay. I had had to come this way for a quick moment to nab a few items. When I was cleaning around here the other day, I found a large stash of valuables, but I couldn't take it all with me without running a high risk of being caught. So, I left part of it half-buried in a hole underneath a large metal dumpster, and I'm back to get it today. I'll go straight to the Center to sell it. We might be able to actually celebrate this year. I adjust my hood and hurry. I still can't be late for the Reaping.

Looking in all directions, I check to make sure that no one's around before kneeling beside to dumpster to take out the jewelry and coins.

"Hey!"

S***. A man runs towards me from behind, but he can't recognize me with the hood. Shoot. I can't reveal who I am or else I'm screwed for life, but I don't have time to lose him. He's blocking the fastest road to the Town Square.

There's no time to think through all my options. When he's almost upon me, I grab a rotting board and whack him in the head as fast and hard as I can. He falls to the ground, unconscious. Problem solved. I get to the Reaping on time, and he won't know what I look like. Is this a little cold? Yes. But necessary for survival? Yes. That's enough reason for me.

 _ **Keesa Ambel, 15**_

In my family, we don't always talk that much. Of course, there are times when we joke and have fun together, but this is not one of those times. This is one of the times where I just stand, both of my parents hugging me. I don't need them to tell me that they love me. I know they do, and somehow, just being together sends me their love stronger than words ever will. There are neither apologies for not enough time together nor affirmations of their love and support. Their warm embraces tell me everything and more.

Finally, Mom breaks away and unclasps her silver necklace. It was my Dad's engagement gift to her; he didn't have enough money for a ring, so he got this necklace.

"Your dad and I decided to give this to you," she says.

Dad nods. "We couldn't think of anything else that does a better job of expressing how we feel."

"Thank you," I whisper. It's their wedding necklace, a symbol of a love that doesn't let go, a love that nothing, not even death, can fully sever. I wipe at my eyes. "I love you too."

* * *

 **Questions:**

 **1\. Which ones stood out to you the most? Why?**

 **2\. Which tributes, based on this, did you like the most?**

 **3\. Predictions for the future?**

 **4\. Do you like this way of recapping? If I do SYOTs in the future (which will probably be inevitable), should I do this again?**

 **5\. I'm feeling happy today. How are you feeling?**

* * *

 **A/N The next update may take two weeks, as I need a bit of time to finalize my plans for the story. Hang tight!**

 **See y'all!**

 **~Joseph**


	19. Trains and Chariots

**A/N HAPPY REALLY LATE CHINESE NEW YEAR! (The celebrations go on for up to two weeks, though, so I guess this isn't** _ **that**_ **late.)**

 **Whoops. That was… almost three weeks? On the other hand, this chapter is about two times longer than my regular chapter, so… I should stop rationalizing this. It's still late. On the upside, I have the Pre-Games planned out in detail and the Games planned out loosely, so updates should be faster. And Yes, the victor has already been chosen, and he/she will be the victor regardless if the author reviews. The placement of the fallen, however… let's say that reviews give me an incentive up to a point.**

 **Oh, and the blog has been updated with a few new faces! For those of you who don't know, it's at eccleesiastesverse. weebly. com**

 **Welp, sorry to bore y'all with my mostly-coherent rambling. Here's the chapter. Enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **Pembroke Thompson, 17, District Seven Male**_

I blankly stare at the abundant food. It should make me hungry, the smells tantalizing and alluring, but right now, I want to throw up. I should be excited, happy to be away from my district, but a sinking feeling in my chest tells me that this was a mistake. Cassia's last words to me ring in my head.

" _You won't be getting anything from District Seven this year. I'll be sure of that."_

Great. I'm on my way to the Capitol, which wants to kill me, away from my district that also wants me gone.

Minisa seems unperturbed by the depressive silence — or maybe I'm the only one that feels it. "So what's the plan?" she says, directing her words to the two mentors this year.

The older of the two, Aldair Verne, the Victor of the 845th Hunger Games, places his fork neatly beside his plate before replying. He's nearing seventy, "That's up to you," he says, "We can't force-fit you into a plan. You have to make one that fits you."

Minisa sighs. "But that sounds so… _idealistic_."

Idealistic. That's what I used to be before the world came crashing down around me.

"Yes, yes," Mr. Verne says, "It is idealistic. But it's one of those few things in life that is idealistic. There is a way to win for every set of abilities. It just requires you to make the right decisions."

Right decisions. Decisions I did not make when I let Cassia into my life. How was I supposed to know that she would be destructive? Her face appears once again in my head, and I have a sudden urge to stab something — or someone. I take a deep breath. Calm down.

"So what are these right decisions?" Minisa presses, getting frustrated with the lack of concrete answers.

Keshia, the other mentor, steps in. "We don't know anything about you. How are we supposed to tell you what to do?"

Minisa looks down for a moment. "Okay then," she says, "I've trained for a while, but I didn't expect myself to volunteer until… until I volunteered."

"Why did you volunteer?" Keshia asks.

"Well… it's a long story," she says, silently telling us to leave her backstory alone.

Keshia looks at me. "You haven't spoken at all. What do we need to know about you?"

I clear my throat. Since I'm going into the Hunger Games, I guess there's no use hiding anything. "I'm trained — sort of. I'm supposedly an abusive rapist, but you already know that. And… I guess I'm here because it's no better than Seven."

Keshia tilts her head to the side. That's right, victors don't always keep up with local news. They live up in Victor's Village, often completely oblivious to the world in the district below them. Somehow, that makes me mad.

I push my chair back and stand up. "There's no point in sitting here, so come get me when we get to the Capitol." I leave the room and walk to the next train car, the one with the couch and the television. The screaming colors hurt my eyes, so I turn off the overhead lights and sit down, leaning back onto the plushy pillows.

Was volunteering the right decision? This sick form of buyer's remorse clouds my mind. What was I even thinking? Escape? Some escape. I just chose death. It would've been a lot easier to just kill myself. Heck, I could probably get away with it. We're technically "protected" — even the steak knives given to us will freeze us if we try to stab ourselves — but there are _always_ ways.

I blink. When did I get so dark? When did I completely give up? Was it when Cassia began her accusations? When everyone at school shunned me? When Cassia took me to court?

No. It was when my "father" left me without so much as a glance at me, when my sister Hazel met me at the door to my bedroom and told me that I was as good as dead to her. The people I thought I knew were complete strangers to me. Now even I'm not quite sure who I am. I thought I was "that optimistic guy." I thought I had the hope to overcome my obstacles. So much for that.

The blaring lights come back on, and the brightness causes me to squint as my eyes adjust to the light. Who came in? Time for the recaps?

Keshia sits down on the other end of the couch.

"How are you?" she asks innocently.

"How am I?" I say. "Not good. What did you think?"

"I expected nothing less," she says, "I got the basic rundown of what happened."

"You did, huh?"

"Yes. I'll be your mentor."

"Did you draw the short straw?" I say.

She snorts. "I volunteered."

"Why would you do that?"

"Why not?"

I laugh. " 'Why not?' My district is convinced that I'm a rapist and will refuse to support me. The Capitol doesn't think any better of me. I don't have any reason to win. 'Why not?' "

She presses her lips together. Regretting her decision? "I know. I still wanted to mentor you." She takes a deep breath, as if choosing her words carefully. "Trust me. I know more about rejection than you think."

"And how would you know that? You're a celebrity."

She sighs. "You really don't know anything, do you." She begins to raise her voice. "You think being a victor is easy?"

"Of course it is! You never have to worry about money! You get the best treatment, the best food, the best houses, the best everything! You never have to worry about your life because everything is provided."

She opens her mouth, but I keep going.

"And the whole d*** district treats all of you like heroes because, well, because you are heroes. I'm done for. The Capitol wants a good story, a hero to root for. I'm nothing but a criminal — pretty much the villain. It doesn't matter if I'm innocent or not. I'm as good as dead."

"We're not heroes," she says.

"But-"

"Hear me out! If anything, we Victors are just a whole lot of murderers. Especially me."

"...What?"

"It wasn't even until the final few. I killed my district partner, as well as the rest of my alliance though there was no reason to do so."

"People still respect you, though."

"Not the people that matter the most."

I can't think of anything to say to that. She takes my silence as permission to continue.

"My parents disowned me as soon as the flashbacks began. My sister refuses to acknowledge my existence."

"I- I didn't know."

"I know more about rejection than you think I do. A lot of us Victors are like that. We're all broken people, rejected and betrayed by the people we thought we could trust." She places a hand on my shoulder. "I understand."

I blink rapidly as I feel a tear coming on. Why am I so emotional?

"Now come on. We've got a lot of work to do. If you ever need someone to talk about, I'm here for you, okay?."

* * *

 _ **Ryzee Fleet, 15, District Nine Female**_

Allio and I sit on a couch, facing the television, waiting to see the competition for this year. Rusk Flanders, one of the mentors this year, turns the television to the right station and leans back. Though he mentored last year, he was unlucky enough to be drawn in the "Reaping" for mentors.

So far, Allio seems like a fun person to be with. He's not too talkative, but he smiles and talks and keeps the conversation going — not that I need any help doing _that_. He's pretty much all I ever wanted in a little brother. It's a little puzzling, though. He has an older brother that didn't volunteer. I really don't get why. If I had a younger sister — I wish I had one — I'd volunteer for her… would I? I hope I would.

All of a sudden, the television blares the Capitol anthem, and I jump. Allio smiles. Jovian Vermillius' loud, booming voice blares in my ears, and Rusk quickly turns the volume down, apologizing.

"It's okay," I say, smiling at the mentor before I turn my attention back to the screen. The two from One seem average. Absolutely nothing makes them stand out. Besides, it's rainy, and I have trouble keeping my eyes off of the vibrant furniture and on the dreary town square of District One. Allio shudders beside me and presses a bit closer. All the fancy luxuries of the train have distracted me from the fact that in all probability, I'm going to die.

I'm a lot more focused now.

In District Two, the guy is apparently the son of a victor. Not good for me. He has extra popularity, and he'll have leverage that none of us do. Districts Three and Four go by quickly without a hitch, but the guy in Five is large and muscular. This time, I shudder. The guy from Six is dressed in almost rags and is smoking a cigarette, and the crowd jeers at the guy from Seven, even though he's a volunteer. Eight goes by and I look away from the Nine reaping. I don't want to relive that moment. Both from Ten are reaped, though I'm sure they're both trained. There's a volunteer from Eleven this year. Once again, Twelve has two starving kids. Jovian gives a few ending remarks, and them the anthem plays and the broadcast is over.

Rusk has a firm look on his face.

"The odds aren't good, are they," I comment.

He shakes his head. "No, they aren't. There are a lot of threats this year, even more so than most years. You are the youngest tributes, so if you even want to _consider_ winning, you'll need some help. Consider splitting up; that way you'll both have a stronger ally."

Splitting up? He looks at Allio, and I know our mentor thinks he won't make it. He thinks that I have better odds if I distance myself from Allio. I want to argue — tell him that he's wrong — but I can't. In the hundreds of Hunger Games, there have only been less than ten victors that were twelve or thirteen years old — and most of them won by pure luck, with easy competition and a lucky break in the arena. This year, the competition is anything but easy — even with a favorable arena, he isn't likely to win. For the first time for as far as I can remember, I'm at a loss for words.

"You guys decide what you'll do," Rusk says, standing up. "I'll be back soon, and then we can talk." He leaves the room, leaving behind a heavy silence.

After a few moments, Allio speaks up. "I'm not stupid."

It takes me aback. "Why would you say that?" I say, "Of course you're not stupid! That's about as random as I am."

Though I smile, he's deadly serious. "I know what he meant. He wants you to find someone to help you because I'm a lost cause."

"No! Don't-"

"I can take it," he says, more serious than I've ever seen anyone at his age. He looks me in the eyes. "I made my brother promise not to volunteer for me if I was reaped because I wouldn't be able to take his death and because he's more useful than I am." He gulps. This isn't easy for him. I open my mouth to protest, but he goes on. "Don't ally with me just because you feel that it's right. Go ahead. Find someone else. Maybe District Nine will get another victor."

"Allio…" That's all I manage to croak. He's breathing heavily, as if it took a lot of strength to get those words out. The irony of the situation strikes me. Everyone around me seems to think that I need to do everything for my own survival, to focus on yourself and accept the reality. But Allio… he isn't thinking about himself. He's thinking about me, about the District. In this case, I'll honor his wishes.

But no. I can't. If he's can choose to think about others over self, I can too.

"No," I say. I feel the determination creeping into my voice. "I'm going to stick with you."

"But-"

"I'm not taking no for an answer," I say, "No buts."

"Fine, then," he says. "Fine."

Rusk appears in the door. "Have you made a decision yet?"

"Yes," I say, "We're allying with each other."

"You know that that'll increases the chances for death for both of you, right?"

"Yes," I say. "But I've made the decision."

Rusk looks to Allio for confirmation, but he just shrugs. Our mentor sighs as we pull into the Capitol.

"Okay. I'll do my best to help."

* * *

 _ **Serge Foulard, 18, District Eight Male**_

Livienna, my stylist, loops the scarf around my neck and drapes the end over my left shoulder. She turns me around to face the mirror. Surprisingly, it isn't that bad. The tips of my hair have been dyed a flaming crimson; well, everything I'm wearing is some vibrant shade of red or orange, from the scarf to the cape to the shirt with really long sleeves. Even some red designs have been drawn on my face. Compared to our usual pile of quilts, this isn't that bad.

Livienna stands eagerly, waiting for my reaction.

"Wow," I say, "This… isn't bad. But…"

"But what?"

"What am I supposed to be?"

She laughs — a loud, full laugh — before pulling herself back together. "You must be jesting!"

"No… I'm not."

She stops laughing. "Of course _you_ wouldn't know. Scarves are so _in_ right now Since you're from the textile district, you and your partner will be the most stylish tributes this year!"

"Oh," I say, forcing a friendly chuckle. "Thank you." Scarves? In the middle of summer? Who decided that that was a good idea? Whatever reason, I prefer this scarf to whatever the previous District Eight stylists came up with.

"Now come come. We mustn't be late!"

She grabs my wrist and pulls me along, going faster than I ever thought possible in her heels. I catch a passing glance at a clock as we rush down the halls. If the parade begins at five o'clock, we still have an hour. Some people just have no chill.

When the elevator doors open and we arrive in the holding area for the chariots, I see that though we're "dreadfully" early, a few other groups have already arrived. Perfect timing to begin executing my plan.

The one thing I noticed while watching the Reapings was that we have an awful lot of untrained fighters. The guy from Five — Aaron? — could take down any of the trained girls and even some of the boys. Tyson from Eleven is a volunteer. Usually, outer-district volunteers are a major threat, and he doesn't seem to be an exception. Of course, there's Taffeta and the Nines, who don't seem to have much hope, but if I can form a central core of a few strong tributes, any help will be good. Once we take down the trained tributes, the playing field will be a lot more even for us untrained tributes.

Livienna helps me onto my chariot and adjusts the scarf again. I tap my finger on the edge of the chariot. Come on… I'm wasting time here.

She steps back with an assured sigh. "Perfect. Now just stand right there until the parade begins."

She hurries off, probably to get Taffeta. Just stand here? I don't think so. I have to make my move before the trained tributes arrive. If they don't know what's going on, they can't prepare for it.

I jump off the chariot. There goes the perfect scarf position. Oh well. She'll live. Aaron from Five is standing on his chariot, drumming his fingers on the wood. When I approach, he turns around before I say a word.

"Nervous?" I ask.

He smiles sheepishly. "Yeah. I'm not… good with people."

I shrug. "Not like you'll need that," I comment. He'll gain sponsors regardless of his people skills. "But I came over to talk about an alliance."

"Alliance?" He rubs his neck. "This early? Why?"

I look back to verify that the trained tributes haven't arrived. The coast is clear. "Well, you know how the victor is almost someone from one of the trained districts?"

He nods.

"Well, I want to change that," I say, "I was thinking that if the rest of us banded together and focused on taking out the biggest threats, we all might increase our odds."

He narrows his eyes. " _All_ will increase our odds? How do I know that you're not subtly trying to benefit yourself the most?"

He's smart — a valuable trait. "I'd be lying if I said that I'm not benefiting myself," I admit, "But this benefits all of us."

He rubs his neck again. "I'll think about it."

"That's all I'm asking for." Someone behind me yells my name. Livienna isn't pleased. "I have to go. I'll talk to you in training."

The moment I turn around, I'm being pulled by Livienna back to the chariot before I convince her that I do have the capability to walk back without support. Still, this went better than I imagined.

I step onto the chariot — Livienna is fussing again — and smile at Taffeta, who's dressed similarly to me. Soon, the chariots begin to move, and we're taken into the streets of the Capitol. Crowds of people line both sides and loud drums and fanfare sound as the horses _clop clop clop_ down the road. Things are going beautifully this year, and if everything continues to go well…

Let's just say that the hunters will become the hunted.

* * *

 _ **Delmar Martin Jr., District Four Male**_

After dinner, I let the shower wash away everything — all the face and body paint, all the make-up, and pretty much everything my prep team put on me for the chariot ride. From everything I'd heard about the showers in the past, I expected a nightmarish panel of buttons, but it's quite simple in reality. There's a button to start spouting warm water, and then two arrows beside it change the temperature. Of course, there's still a complicated mess of buttons for different perfumes and bath washes, but those are beside the point. I think I'll stick to plain water. There's no need to make life any more complicated than it already was.

I step on the drying pad, which immediately sends a small shock through my body and somehow dries me off (I don't get it), and I dress in loose, comfortable sleepwear. I can't help but wonder how much these clothes would cost at home. I don't know, but it'd definitely be more than I would ever be able to afford.

I exit the bathroom and enter my room. Like almost every other room, the walls are painted ocean blue — the color of District Four. I lie down on the bed, but though I close my eyes, I can't sleep. It's fancy; I'll give it that much, but it's not home. I roll over and give up. It's not a battle worth fighting.

When I enter the television room, I find Harbor, curled up on the couch with her hands around her legs, watching the reruns of the parade. She glances at me to see who came in.

"Don't feel like sleeping?" I say.

"No," she says, her voice much softer than before, "I tried. It didn't work." She takes a sip from a mug of…

"Is that chocolate?" I ask.

"Yes," she says, "You can order it from an Avox."

I glance nervously at the silent servant standing at the door. As much as I can approve of some things the Capitol does, such as the free public education and the move towards increased self-governance, I will never understand why they create Avoxes.

No, I won't go down that track. Even if the Capitol deserved to be burned down and all the residents massacred, I refuse to follow that train of thought. The only thing that can come out of it death, and I'm positive that death is a fate I want to avoid. I gulp and request a mug of hot chocolate, and the Avox hurries away. Still, I can't help but follow the Avox with my eyes.

"Fascinated with Avoxes?" Harbor says.

I swallow and force a smile. "No. Just thinking."

She doesn't seem convinced. "Fine, whatever you say."

"Mind if I sit down?"

"No. Go ahead."

I sit down on the opposite end of the couch. The Avox quickly returns with my mug of hot chocolate, and I thank him. He looks confused, but he quickly hurries away before I can ask any questions, though I doubt he'd give me any sort of reply if I did ask.

Harbor grabs the remote and changes the channel. It seems to be some sort of cooking show with a man and a woman dressed in clothes as red as the meat they're preparing. And is that… blood? They drink the blood too?

Harbor changes the channel back to the the "Official Games Coverage." She didn't seem like the type to enjoy cooking. Right now, Jovian's on the air again, talking with some "experts" about the tributes.

" _...Five is a major threat this year… Peacekeeper..."_

This could actually be useful for me.

" _...tributes don't actually know this information, so we'll have to watch how everything plays out…"_

I look at Harbor, who seems unperturbed by the fact that we're illegally watching this broadcast. She notices my disapproving look.

"Gah, don't ruin the fun," she says.

"How'd you do it?" I ask.

She bites her lip. "I have my ways."

" _Next on our district-by-district analysis are the tributes of District Four: Delmar Martin and Harbor Douglass,"_ Jovian says, " _Let's start with Delmar_." My face appears on the huge screen. " _What are your thoughts?"_

One of the experts — a bubbly lady — stares at the picture of my face for a few moments, as if a picture of me could predict my fate.

"Ah…" Harbor says, chuckling. "They're clueless."

Or maybe I'm that forgettable. I'm not exactly a charismatic guy. The so-called expert rattles off some pre-memorized bullshark crap about how I do have some "fighting chance." She really just has no idea what to say. Another guy says something about "advantages in an aquatic arena." Of course I'd do better in water, it should be a given. The third guy mentions that I seem like an observant thinker. Okay, not too bad. It could be a lucky guess, though.

They quickly move on. " _Now Harbor… What do you say ab-"_ He's cut off by an assistant that waves a clipboard in his face, which changes colors several times. Harbor seems to find it funny. I take another sip of hot chocolate.

The assistant hurries off stage, and Jovian turns back. " _Well, well, well! We've just received some reports on the districts on quite a few of our tributes! And my… it's juicy! Miss. Harbor Douglass…"_

Harbor drops her mug with a clunk, seemingly unable to tear her eyes away from the screen yet trying to muster the strength to go.

" _...let's say, sells her body to other men."_

Harbor buries her head in her hands with a soft cry. I reach for the remote and turn the television off. So her secret is out.

"Hey," I say, trying to come up with something to say. "It can't be _that_ bad, can it?"

Shoot, that sounded horrible. She lifts her head. "It _is_ that bad! Who'd want to sponsor a slut?"

There probably are people who'd do it, but I keep my mouth shut this time. There's a right time for everything, and this isn't the time to remind her that there probably are twisted Capitolians that would sponsor her to get a night with her when she returns. I hear that the forced prostitution isn't a thing with Romulus Snow anymore, but the wealthy always manage to find a way.

"Look," I say, stumbling over my own words, unsure of where my words are coming from. "Harbor. I'll stick with you."

She looks up at me. "Thanks," she mumbles.

"I'm not much," I admit.

"Better than nothing," she says. She smiles weakly.

I stumble out of the room and slam against the hallway wall. Where did all that come from? I wasn't thinking — I really wasn't. As if partnering with her would help my odds!

I get back to my room, feeling light-headed. Maybe sleep will help. But whatever I decide to do, I've got a whole ton of problems.

Somehow, I feel that this is only the beginning.

* * *

 **Questions:**

 **1\. Pembroke… Thoughts on Keshia? Pembroke's situation?**

 **2\. Ryzee… How do you feel about her? Her actions?**

 **3\. Serge… How successful do you think he'll be? How do you feel about it?**

 **4\. Delmar… What do you he'll end up doing?**

 **5\. Predictions on the placements? Story arcs?**

 **6\. What could've been done better in this chapter?**

* * *

 **That's all. Please drop a review! Aiyah, they make me so happy.**

 **See y'all!**

 **~Joseph**


	20. Training, Day 1

**A/N Hey! I'm back! I really don't have anything to say here… so I'll leave y'all alone and get on with the chapter.**

* * *

 _ **Keesa Ambel, 15, District Twelve Female**_

 _The Cornucopia is bright this year; the harsh sunlight reflects off of the golden horn and blinds me. I can't see. It's too bright. The guy from Two is to my right. I'm doomed. The gong rings._

 _In the corner of my eye, I see a large camera, ready to catch everything. I'm hyperventilating. I can't get oxygen. Breathe! Breathe!_

I wake up. It's still dark; the window shows the quiet streets of the Capitol. I glance at the wall-mounted clock, which reads two o'clock in the morning. I rub my eyes and lie back down, but a sleepless hour of tossing and turning goes by. Can't sleep. I get out of bed and walk over to the window. Though no one's out and about, the streetlights cast a yellow light over the empty roads and the dark storefronts. My mind inevitably wanders back to the dream. Strangely enough, it isn't the huge boy from Two that scares me the most. Though I don't want to die, I feel a strange calm when I think about my death. However, the camera wields something, some terror that I can't put my fingers on. Something about that camera scares me more than everything else. It's my family, isn't it? That my family will be forced to watch me die?

I feel lightheaded. I need to get somewhere where I can think. At home, I'd go to the pond down in that abandoned mine shaft, but here, there's nothing. They've got to have a pool somewhere; I'm pretty sure I've heard something about it being on the bottom floor. I quietly open the door and sneak to the exits, careful not to wake anyone up. When I find my way to the elevators, I take the stairs. Twelve floors is a lot, but it seems safer.

I step into the dark stairway, the only bit of dim light coming from small windows too high up for me to reach. Oh well. Time to get climbing.

On my third flight, I hear the faint creaking of the elevator going up. Who else would be up? Whoever it is must be going up to the roof. I stopped there yesterday. It was nice, but the view of the Capitol doesn't seem to cut it. It feels big, open, and ready to swallow me.

After my eleventh flight — I'm passing the door to District One right now — I see that I can continue going down, so I continue. There's a light coming from below, a dim, blue artificial light. I bet almost no one comes down here. The next door is labeled "Training Center," with a fingerprint scanner (like every other door on this flight of stairs), but when I put my finger in, it flashes two red lights. Nope, access denied. I'm not supposed to be training right now. The stairs keep going down, however.

 _Swoosh_

There's a sound coming from further down, like the sound… of a broom, or rough fabric against a wall. I freeze. Is this the same person as earlier?

Timidly, I take one step and then another step towards the stairway. They can't do anything to me; I'm a tribute. Still… would they use this to hurt my odds in the Games? Well, it's too late. Besides, I'm all over the security cameras. Shoot, I should've thought of that before I came down here. Too late now to go back. I scamper down the stairs, and at the bottom, I find a woman with silver blonde hair dressed in a red robe. An Avox, sweeping the floor, a sizable pile of dust in the dustpan in the corner. The door down here seems to require a key as opposed to a fingerprint, and the key dangles around the Avox's neck.

She stares at me, unaccustomed to seeing people at this time of day — or morning. I stare back at her, and then I look at the door.

"Is that the pool?" I ask.

She hesitates before shaking her head. I can tell she's lying. She shouldn't need to hesitate; she knows this place like the back of her hand. And I need to get somewhere to think, to calm down. I don't panic often, but the air in the District Twelve suites felt heavy and choking.

I gesture to the chain around her neck. "Is that the key?"

She shakes her head, a frightened look on her face.

I bite my lip. What do to…

"Give me the key," I command, "You aren't doing anything wrong."

I take a step forward and she sighs and gives it to me. I unlock the door and hand the key back to her. "Thank you."

I step inside, and the automatic lights turn on. It is the pool. My footsteps quicken and I sit on the edge, dangling my bare feet into the water, just as I would do at home when I needed so find a quiet place. I stare at the rippling water and take a few deep breaths.

My family might have to watch me die. The longer I survive in the Games, the bloodier my death will be. Cornucopia deaths are always fast, but as the Games go on, the trained tributes get hungrier for blood. If I win, everything will be worth it, but if I'm going to die… it might be best to die at the Cornucopia. But then that would disappoint my family. The only option is to be cut up or torn to pieces or something and be broadcasted on national television for Mom and Dad and Netta and Canary and Jacob to see. The thought makes my entire body shudder; my throat feels like it's closing up. Get air. I kick my feet, sending water flying across the pool, and I breathe again.

The door clicks open. I jump.

"Woah!" a voice comes from behind. "I- I didn't expect to find anyone else here."

It's a guy from one of the other districts — I don't remember which one — and he sits down a couple yards down from me.

He looks at the water hungrily, as if he's barely restraining himself from jumping in, and then moments later, his shirt is off and he's in the water, swimming in smooth circles.

"You're from… Four?" I say when he comes up for air.

"Yes," he says, "You are…"

"From Twelve," I say.

"You can swim?"

"Yes." I grin. "There are caves with underground ponds if you know where to look."

"Really?"

"I'll show you." I slide into the water, fully clothed, and swim a circle, not nearly as smooth as the boy from Four but adequately enough.

He looks impressed. "I didn't know," he says.

All of a sudden, it comes to mind that we aren't friends and that we can't be friends. The Hunger Games is not a place to be social, but I can't resist the urge. I should try harder to distance myself… Well, it's a bit too late for that. "I'm Keesa, by the way," I say, against my best judgment.

"Delmar," he says.

I get up to leave. He's probably here to think as well. Why else would he get up so early? "I'll see you in training."

* * *

 _ **Animata Deeksha, 18, District Two Female**_

Ithaca, the escort, bangs on my door. "It's time to go! What's taking you so long?"

I finish slipping into my training clothes and slowly stroll to the door of the bedroom. I pause before opening it, and I find my distraught escort.

"Let's go!" she says, grabbing my arm.

I slap her hand away. "I can walk myself, thank you."

Leaving her with her mouth agape, I walk over to the stairs, where Slate is waiting. He's been quiet the entire time we've been here. I understand. I would be careful if I had a Victor dad that was constantly breathing down my neck.

I smile at him. "Let's just go," I say.

He just shrugs, so I open the door to the stairwell and go ahead, with Slate right behind me.

" _Wait!"_ I hear Ithaca call as the door slams shut.

"What was that about?" Slate says as we go down the stairs.

"Some people are fun to mess with," I say.

"You think _she's_ fun to mess with? Are you trying to lose your hearing?"

"No," I say, "She's not fun, but I do it anyway."

He chortles. "All power to you. Ask me if you need ear plugs."

When we enter the training room, a few tributes are already here. The guy from Eight is here — without his district partner. He worries me. Most tributes I've seen on television are either scared or determined. He seems… relaxed? He's completely calm. He doesn't seem too confident, yet he seems to know what he's doing. Even _I_ don't completely know exactly what I'm doing, so he's unsettling. The tributes from Five are here. The guy has muscle — a lot of it — and it doesn't look like it's from factory work. He's trained himself for _something_. The Tens stand together by the wall. Usually, I'd have no problem allying with them, but both of them are Reaped. I'll have to wait and see what they can do. The elevator doors open, and the Sevens stroll in.

Slate looks at me and then back at them again. "I'm going to go in," he says, "Start forming that alliance."

I shrug. "Suit yourself. Hold back on the Tens, though."

He gives me a thumbs up, and we go over.

"Hey," Slate says, "you two are from Seven, correct?"

The girl crosses her arms. "Yes. And you're from Two?"

"Yes," Slate says, "We thought we'd say 'hi' and decide if we're allying this year."

"Why not," the girl says, "I'm Minisa, by the way." She gestures to her quiet district partner. "He's Pembroke."

"Interesting name," I comment. "I'm Animata."

"I'm Slate."

An awkward silence follows the self-introductions. Pembroke rubs his neck.

"Well then," Slate says, "What do you think of the Ones?"

I snarl. "Their 'District One-ness" hurts my eyes," I say, "The girl is so puffed up; it drives me crazy. Her partner seems decent, though."

Minisa lowers her arms a little, though they're still defensively crossed over her chest. "Isn't it a bit early to say? Wait and see what they can do before making any rash decisions."

"Okay," Slate interjects. We're off to a great start, aren't w? His voice level drops. "What about the Tens?"

Pembroke shrugs. I'm starting to get the feeling that he doesn't care about anything.

"Can they do anything?" Minisa says.

"We'll see," I say, watching the elevator doors open, revealing the Ones. "Whoopie, the goldies are here." I give a little wave.

The girl waves back and flips her golden hair back. "Well, I see you've begun without us."

"It did take you long enough," I snark, earning a disapproving look from her. She's _that_ kind of person.

She quickly recovers. "I'm Splendor, by the way."

"Onyx," her partner says. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

We Twos and the Sevens reintroduce ourselves for the sake of the Ones, and Onyx quickly points out the Tens. "Have you decided what you're doing with them?"

"We're waiting," Slate explains. "Until we see their skill level."

"What's our plan?" Minisa says, her arms still crossed. Gosh, ain't she nervous. Relax.

"Learn what you don't know," Slate says, "If that's some weapon, do that. If it's survival skills, go ahead. We don't have any room for overconfidence. Oh, and watch the Tens. See if they're worth the effort."

I bristle at his commanding tone, but the risk isn't worth it. He's popular with the Capitol crowd — he has more sponsors lined up than the rest of us combined — and his victor father means that unless I tread carefully, I'll end up on the wrong end of the sword.

This isn't what I thought it would be. I thought I'd be free, free to do whatever I want and show my family and my district that I am truly grateful. Instead, I'm in a prison, forced to watch every single tip-toe step I make. I almost can't wait for the Games.

In there, I'll finally feel free.

* * *

 _ **Clover Forney, 16, District Eleven Male**_

I poke at my food. The morning was uneventful. The trained tributes from One, Two, and Seven have already banded together, which makes life much harder for me. Last year, we Outer District untrained tributes could rely on the rivalry between the two trained alliances, but this year, we're up against all of them. The guy from Eight's been everywhere too. While most of us have focused on one or two things, I've seen him visit… five stations? For the life of me, he either has a brilliant memory or ADHD. I do personally hope for the latter. I want to be the one coming out of that arena _alive_.

Tyson sits at the end of our corner table. We've been trying to keep a cordial relationship; we'll have to kill each other anyway. An alliance just feels like too much trouble, and if anything it'll weigh me down.

The bell announces the end of lunch, and I look around for a place to put my tray. The cold blue dining room only has the buffet, the tables, and the chairs. Fine then. I guess we leave our dishes for Avoxes.

We return to the training room, and the trained alliance immediately heads for various survival stations. What, are they _trying_ to keep us from using them? Only the Tens go for any sort of combat, with the guy using a sword and the girl doing hand to hand combat with a trainer. She's got a nasty kick.

I settle for the fire-building station, where a grumpy, older trainer sits, his eyes reading a small, handheld screen. It almost seems like a phone, but even the richest citizens of District Eleven only have phones that flip open. He looks up.

"What do you want to know," he says in a low, unimpressed voice.

"How to build fires that don't smoke," I say.

"Look," he says. Patronizing me, huh? "You need to learn how to make a regular fire first. And-"

I would stop and listen, but everything I learn in training could determine whether I live or die. "I know how to do that," I say, "Can-"

"I'm the expert here, okay?" He grabs a piece of wood. "First-"

I reach over a grab the wood. After a minute or so, there's a spark, and after another few minutes, there's a small fire going. I look at him smugly.

"Well then," he says, stumbling over his words, "You do know what you're doing. I'll show you how to build a Dakota Fire Pit."

He then proceeds to explain it before giving me a demonstration, and after an hour or two, I know how to build a fire that's wood-savvy and relatively smokeless.

"Clover, correct?" a male voice behind me says.

I turn around to see the guy from Eight. It was about time for him to float over here.

"What do you want?" I say.

"Woah, no need to be so defensive," he says. Fair point. This gives me a chance to figure out if he's a threat or just a restless tribute. "I'm just here to propose an alliance."

"No," I say, "I've decided. I'm going solo."

He bites his lip. "Well… non-aggression pact?"

"How do I know you won't break it?" I say, "Those aren't official, and no one will care if you break it."

"Please. There's no need to make this harder than it has to be."

"Then give me a concrete answer," I say. "I told you that I don't want an alliance." There's something more; I feel it. He seems like the kind of person that would overthink things, so I have no doubt that he has some master plan.

"Geez, I didn't think you'd be so hard," he says. He lifts up his head and looks around. "The plan is simple. If all the trained tributes are allied, then none of us will be able to stop them alone or even with a single ally. But if most of us band together, then we can disrupt their alliance at the Cornucopia, and then after, if you want to go alone, you can."

He's making this sound too reasonable. On one hand, he might be lying about everything. But it also makes sense… If he's sincerely doing this… it might be my only way to win.

"I'm considering it," I say, "Tell me more."

"Well..." he says, "That's it. There's nothing else to it."

"Who else is in?"

He looks up for a moment. "Aaron from Five," he says, counting them out on his fingers. "Delmar from Four. My partner, Taffeta. Ezra and Keesa from Twelve, though Keesa's a little iffy. Diesel and Christina from Six are considering it. I tried talking to your partner, but he ignored me."

I stifle a laugh at that.

"And I'm watching Ryzee from Nine, Raffaella from Five, and the Threes," he continues, "I haven't had a chance to talk to them yet."

That's an awful lot of people. If I don't join… I'm doomed. Being trapped between two large alliances is never good. Just look at what happened last year.

"I'm in," I say, faking a smile. Better to seem unthreatening. Whether he knows it or not, he'll wield quite a bit of power.

He sighs in relief. "Good. I'll talk to you later and fill you in on the plan." He gets up and floats over to the traps station, where Raffaella is.

I go back to practicing with fire, but I can't focus. I don't like this. Everything's out of control. I throw the wood down and sit back. Okay, Serge. If you can play the Hunger Games, then I can too. I'm just as capable as you are, and I can play the game just as well, if not better than you can.

That doesn't make me feel any better.

* * *

 _ **Kaleb Sirius, 16, District Ten Male**_

I place the sword on the rack and wipe away the sweat on my forehead, looking over to the cluster of six trained tributes gathered around the edible plants station. A few of them looked over just earlier, but they show no sign of being impressed. Fine, then.

I sit down on a bench along the side of the training room and watch as Deborah shoots an arrow at the target, missing by about three inches but still hitting the general area. She was never that into weapons. At home, she'd focus on martial arts while the rest of us picked up swords and knives.

She puts away the bow and sits down beside me. "Do you think it's working?" she says.

"I don't know," I say, "We've pretty much shown them everything we can do. If that isn't enough, then I don't know what will persuade the Twos to let us in."

She leans back against the wall. "Are you sure that joining them is our best option?"

"Unless you want to be hunted down. They're the hunters this year, and if we aren't with them, they'll track us down."

"But something about the group unnerves me," she says, "The alliance doesn't seem strong."

"How so?"

"The girl from Two is rubbing the other two girls the wrong way," she says, "When she's around, the other two seem to be on edge."

"Really?"

"And the guys from One and Seven seem to be… preoccupied. They aren't giving their full attention to the alliance. They have some sort of other plans; I know it."

"But joining them gives us so much more," I say, "Slate will be showered with sponsors. His dad will manage to get him everything he needs. With him, we won't starve."

"With him, we'll be constantly worrying about being killed. We won't be able to touch him, and he'll kill the whole lot of us."

I press my lips together. That's a good point.

"How about this," I offer. "If they ask us to join, then we take it. If they never ask, then we don't try to force our way in."

She sighs and thinks about it. "It's reasonable."

"Is that a yes?"

She hesitates. "Yes."

"Relax, okay?"

"But if there's any hint that they'll turn on us, we're leaving. We're taking no chances."

I sigh. "Okay." I bite my lip. "But please. Don't look into things too much."

She tilts her head back against the wall. "You know, in a life or death situation, I'd rather be safe than sorry. If I get that feeling that something's going down, I want out." She looks me in the eye.

"Be careful," I caution, "There's no use making more enemies. Leaving them makes you an instant target."

"Better be a target than dead."

There's no response to that. She gets up, flipping her long brown hair back, and goes to the traps station. Her stylist tied her hair back this morning, but sometime between then and now, the hair band came off. Though she's not a rough girl, she won't hesitate to do what she feels is right.

Where should I go next?The trained group is still gathered around the plants station. I could go do that, but that'd make me look desperate to get in — definitely not the plan. I've had enough with the weapons. I go join Deborah at the traps. Her nimble fingers are much faster at manipulating the materials, and though I've only started, she has one done.

"It's the one called… the bait-stick one," she explains, "For catching animals." She fingers a looped part of the rope, and when she puts a stick through, disturbing the system, the rope loop suddenly shrinks, gripping the stick tightly. "This noose catches the animal."

I put the ropes down. "I'll leave the traps to you."

"What?" she says, "Ropes making you loopy?"

I try to hold the laugh in, but it sputters out anyway. "Seriously? Deborah! That was bad."

"You laughed, didn't you?" she says, laughing, "I'd say that it was good."

"Fine. You got — or trapped — me."

"You thought mine was bad?"

"Yeah. I'm punnier than you."

"Not even original," she laments, "Crap, I can't think of a response."

"Then I win this one?"

"You win this one."

"Good then," I say with a smile.

A voice interrupts us. "Kaleb and Deborah, correct?"

Both of us turn around to find the boy from Two standing behind us. We quickly stagger to our feet, and Deborah catches my eye for a moment. We're on the same page.

"Yes," I say. Is my voice shaking? Thankfully, Deborah takes over for me. I wasn't prepared for this, and I don't have my words together.

"What are you here for?" she asks innocently, though all of us know.

"I'm Slate of District Two," the guy says, "And I'm inviting both of you to join our alliance with the Ones and Sevens."

Deborah looks at me again, clueless. We talked about this, remember?

"We accept," I say.

"Well then," Slate says, "I suppose you should come over and join us."

"We'll be right there," Deborah hurriedly says. "We've got a few things to get."

No, we don't. Slate shrugs and walks to the rest of his group.

"What was that?" I say in a hushed voice, "You know our answer. And what do we need to get?"

She sighs. "I was trying to make it less suspicious."

"What?"

"Don't you think it'd be suspicious if we made an instant decision? That'd tell them that we've been thinking about this for a while. If we seem too desperate, they'll try to push us around."

Oh… "I didn't think about that."

"And I needed to buy us a bit more discussion time. We won't have much one on one communication anymore."

Ohh… I get it. "We need to stay on the same page."

"Exactly. If what we're trying to do doesn't line up with what they see of us, they'll know something's up."

"We'll have to be extra careful," I say.

"Yes," she says, "We'd better get going. Remember our deal."

"If any of us sees any sign that the rest are turning on us, we leave," I say

"Yes," she says. With hesitation, she adds, "And if I need to, I'll leave without you."

I pray it never comes to that.

* * *

 **Questions:**

 **1\. Thoughts on the tributes? On their thought processes? On their decisions?**

 **2\. What events in this chapter will become important?**

 **3\. What was done well? What could be done better?**

 **4\. Other predictions?**

 **5\. Am I the only person that thinks that the Hunger Games fandom is dying?**

* * *

 **That's about it for now. I'll try to be snappy with the next chapter.**

 **See y'all,**

 **~Joseph**


	21. Training, Day 2

**A/N. (...)**

 _ **Raffaella Silva, 17, District Five Female**_

I take another bite of the scrambled eggs and then push my plate away. It hurts a little to leave unfinished food on my plate, but I'd rather _not_ be full to the point that it hurts during training. Besides, all the food we don't finish? They throw it away. _All_ of it. It doesn't matter if it's on my plate or not; it's going down the garbage chute.

I push away from the table. Today, I intend to make good use of my training time. I spent most of yesterday trying to pull myself together. Serge from Eight tried to talk to me, but he gave up when I wouldn't respond.

"Hey, Raffaella," Raydon calls. Because District Five only has three Victors fit for mentoring, someone always has to mentor two years in a row. This is his second year. "We need to talk."

I nod and sit down in the living room. He sits opposite from me.

"Raffaella… what happened yesterday?" he says. "You did practically nothing all day!"

I shrug.

"Today, spend more time on the survival stations. Learn how to use a knife. Figure out poisons and traps, since you obviously aren't going to win by brute force."

I smile weakly.

"Do you even care?"

I nod.

"Then you need to get your act together. You won't win if you waste all your time."

I nod. I know. I don't plan on wasting my time today.

He sighs. "You still won't talk."

I smile and nod.

" _Can_ you talk?"

I nod.

"Why won't you talk?"

I zip my lips.

"Fine then. Do it your way. Good luck."

I get up and wait by the elevator for the escort, who takes me and Aaron down to the Training Center. While I spent all of yesterday getting my act together, Aaron was on the move. His peacekeeper training is definitely giving him an edge; I saw the boy from Two eyeing him nervously. I think he's with Serge in an alliance now.

We're soon released to do whatever we want, and I suppose I should follow Raydon's advice. He did win this thing once. If I remember correct, they called him "the angry boy" because he channeled all the anger inside him into his fight for survival. He's still angry today; I heard he threatened the male tribute from our own district last year. Not pleasant. I head over to the station on poisons.

It's surprisingly empty — only the girl from Six is here — because most people learning survival skills focused on edible plants, building fires, and finding water. Then again, this isn't a survival station. This is a weapon masquerading as a survival station. I shouldn't think about that. I'll call it a survival station anyway. I just got my act together, and I'm not about to fall apart because the idea of killing someone makes me queasy — which it does. I bite my lip. Focus on the books here, Raffi. There isn't even a trainer here, just a collection of books and a few quiz machines.

I originally came here thinking about plant poisons, but it turns out that there's much more, such as rat poison. Come to think of it, last year, the girl from Six killed the girl from Eleven with rat poison. Better watch out for that one.

There's a tap on my shoulder. It's the girl from Six from this year, the only other person at this station. She can't possibly be trying the exact same thing as her counterpart last year did, could she?

"Hey," she says, blushing from embarrassment. "I'm not good with this whole social things…"

I smile at her. I'm not a social person either.

Her shoulders relax. "You know, you seem like you're going for stealth… right?"

I nod.

"Okay, good. I am too, so I was thinking… maybe we could team up? I didn't want to find someone else because I thought they'd slow me down, but I think we could work something out… Maybe?"

 _And?_ I gesture. I also point in the direction of Serge. _Aren't you with him?_

"Well…. To be perfectly honest, my mentor told me to find someone to get my back… and I don't trust Serge. He's talked to almost everyone and I think he's lying to some of us."

I nod. It's a reasonable worry.

"So…" she says, trying to fill the silence. "Do… you have any, um, thoughts?"

I simply smile and zip my lips. Of course, I have thoughts. I just don't intend to share them.

"Do you talk?"

I shake my head and smile.

"Can you talk?"

I almost laugh. I've heard this question so many times; it's almost funny.

She shrugs. "Okay, then."

Over her shoulder, I see Serge rapidly approaching. I point. She turns around.

"What's going on?" he asks, drumming his fingers on the table beside us. His tone is completely non-confrontational, but I see why Christina doesn't trust him. He's too uptight and worried about having control.

"I asked Raffaella to join," Christina says, her voice soft but firm.

"Whew." He runs his other hand through his hair. Ah… it looked like she was double crossing him. He looks at me funny, probably wondering what Christina saw in the silent girl that ignored him yesterday, but he nods. "Okay. As of now, the plan is…" He drops his voice, and I get a little closer to hear. "...take out one of the trained tributes at the Cornucopia. Aaron and Diesel are the in charge of that. If they need any help, try to help them out. But you two; work together and hold the supplies deep in the Cornucopia. I'm going to go tell Delmar to help you. Make sense?"

Christina nods. "Got it."

I nod as well.

He smiles. "Good. I'll see you guys around."

Both of us watch him as he goes to the spears, where the boy from Four is.

"What do you think?" Christina whispers.

I draw my finger across my throat. I don't trust him.

"Same," she says, "Should we do it, though?"

My initial response is to reject it, but if we take off on our own… we'll have a whole pack on us. So I nod.

She sighs. "I don't think we have a choice."

 _ **Allio Spottedberg, 13, District Nine Male**_

Ryzee's flimsy pile of sticks and string clatters to the ground, and she sighs in frustration. "I can't do this!"

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the girl from Eleven — Clover, I think — watching us. I can't tell if she's assessing us or just being amused.

"It's not that bad…" I venture.

"It _is_ that bad! I'm gonna die… I didn't mean that literally."

"C'mon, we've only been here…"

"For an hour!" she interrupts, "We won't have hours to build a trap in the Games."

"Good point."

"Let's move somewhere else. Find something that we both could work on. You've got no problem with traps."

I shrug. "Okay. Where?"

"I don't know… Didn't Rusk tell us to check something out or something?"

"He did?"

"Yeah. During breakfast."

I think about it. "I don't know…"

Someone interrupts our conversation. "Excuse me?"

We both look. It's Serge. I'm pretty sure Rusk said something about him going around and talking to everyone. I guess it's our turn.

"Yes?" Ryzee says, slightly startled. No one else has talked to us so far. I think most people just don't want to get close to people they'll have to kill.

Serge clears his throat. "I just wanted to talk to you," he says, looking only at her. "Can we go…" He waves towards the corner by the empty climbing wall.

Ryzee looks at me, and I look at her, then at Serge, then back at her. I bite my lip. I think I know what he's up to. "Sure…" I hesitate. "Go ahead."

Ryzee seems concerned, but she follows Serge to the corner, my eyes trailing them. He doesn't realize that I don't need to hear Ryzee to understand what she's saying. She talks with her hands as much as she does with her mouth.

He says something, and she responds, pointing to me and asking for clarification. Is it about me? He says something else, and then she gets nervous, playing with her hands. He's trying to convince her to do something. It's his alliance, isn't it? That huge web of connections he's been building, right? I've seen him talk to almost every non-Trained tribute. Now he's trying to rope her in.

But only her. Of course, he'd do that. I did tell Ryzee to go do whatever was best for her survival… but I don't know if I really mean it anymore. I don't want to die.

He says something else, also beginning to wave his arms, almost mirroring her movements. He's too good at this. I'm pretty sure that's some psychological trick. Ryzee bites her lips, faltering. No, no, no…. No one else in their right mind would want to help me… and if she leaves, I'm on my own. I would rush over, but that'd make me more enemies. I don't need any more obstacles than I already have. I grip the branch in my hands even harder and bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself glued to where I sit. I can't do anything; this is up to Ryzee.

She shakes her head again. Score! Wait. No. He's got her thinking again. It's hard to believe that I'm willing her to be stupid, but I need help if I want to live — and I want to live. I don't want to die!

She shakes her head, clearing it, and says something, stamping her foot as she does so. When Serge opens his mouth again, she turns around and marches back. I pretend to be engrossed in the pile of rope and branches beside me.

She plops down beside me. I ask, "What's up?"

"No- Nothing," she stutters, her face still red. "It's all fine."

"Really…"

"No," she says, "It's not. I probably shouldn't be saying this, but I'm telling you anyway."

"What?"

"He wanted me to leave you and join his alliance."

Knew it. "And…"

"I told him no."

"Because…"

"Because I said I'd stay with you," she says, "But it's so hard…" Her voice begins to rise. "But I'm going to stay with you."

Noble thought…

"And yeah, sure, these are the Hunger Games," she says, standing up and beginning to stop her foot. "And I'm supposed to be all backstab-y and cruel, but no! F*** that! I'm not doing it."

Everyone around us has turned to look, and she quickly sits down again, her face red with frustration and embarrassment.

I try to squeeze out words. "Well… thanks." That sounded pathetic. I try again. "I'll do my best to show you that it was the right decision."

The same voice interrupts us. I glare at Serge. He either doesn't notice or isn't fazed. I assume the second.

"Look," he says, "I thought about your terms."

Ryzee perks up. What terms?

He continues. "And I think I can accept them."

"Really?" Ryzee blurts. Way to go for being subtle. You didn't have to make it obvious that you didn't think he'd accept.

"Yes."

"Um, excuse me," I interject, "But… what are these 'terms.' "

"Well," he says, scratching his head, "I'm taking both of you into the alliance — if you want to, of course."

 _ **Slate Valour, 18, District Two Male**_

I tap the neck of the trainer here with the tip of the fake sword. He nods and walks off. I could get used to this. The swords here are built differently from the ones at home, designed with decorative value in mind as opposed to pure function.

The girl from Nine suddenly cheers. She and her district partner are talking with the boy from Eight — Definitely worrying. I glance up at the Gamemaker balcony, which seems relatively empty at the moment. I look to the other side of the room, where the hidden balcony is. With a window made of one-way glass, all we see is a mirror while mentors and journalists often spend their time up there. The only reason I know is because my father mentioned it a few times. Is he up there right now? Can he see my concern? He'd call it a sign of weakness; if he's up there, I'll get chewed out when I return to my quarters tonight. Augh, why did he have to be picked as my mentor? Rather, why did he volunteer to be my mentor? I'm pretty sure I have better odds at victory with a different victor; my father will ditch me the moment I get weak. I'm nothing more than a trophy to him, as are my mother and sister. I'm fighting this fight for them, not for him.

Animata, who just came up, nudges me. "Hey."

"What?"  
"You distracted much?"

I shrug it off. "Not like you'd care."

For a moment, she almost looks hurt. Uncharacteristic of her. "Don't be so quick to judge. There's more to all of us than meets the eye."

I nod. "True, true. Like Serge."

"The guy from Eight?" She's been paying attention. Who knew? "He's definitely a problem," she says, narrowing her eyes. "If we can get him alone, he'll be no problem to us, but he's up to _something_. He seems to be more focused on getting social than actual training."

I stand with my mouth agape.

"What?"areshe says. She laughs. "Didn't think I had an actual brain in my 'proud' skull?"

"W- well, I-" I struggle. Get it together, Slate. I can deal with reporters, Gamemakers, and even my father, but your district partner surprises you and completely messes you up. "You're just always so… callous."

"Of course. I might not actually be a jerk, but I'll say whatever the **** I want. And don't ever think to pull the 'not appropriate card' on me. I'm no royalty, and I never pretended to be."

I smile.

"And I guess I've misjudged you," she says, "I always thought you were a privileged, stuck-up brat. And an arrogant one at that. Like the kind of person that would cut up that thirteen-year-old from Nine." She spits those final few words.

I shudder. "No. I'm not in here for the gore."

She shrugs. "Neither am I, though the katanas here are sweet."

"The weaponry is really beautiful," I say.

"They almost make it into an art."

Art. Not exactly what I'd call these weapons, but I guess it's true. Then again, with the Capitol, it seems like they have a penchant for turning non-artistic things, such as killing, into arts. I'm still not quite sure what I think about that. Sometimes, in Panem, it's better just not to think too much.

"What do you think of the others?" she says.

"I really don't have a problem with anyone. They're all fine. Why'd you ask?"  
"I really can't stand Splendor," she says, not bothering to lower her volume, "She's so uptight and prude. She can't take a joke."

I hold back a laugh. " _That's_ what's bothering you?"

She tilts her head, not sure what to make of my response. "What about it?"

" 'She can't take a joke.' It's that big of a deal to you?"

"Not exactly… It's more of the way she looks down on the rest of us like we're beggars. Of course, we're not as rich as she is — except for you — but she holds her nose up in the air like she's a perfect princess and augh!"

Out of the corner of my eye, Splendor sits on a bench, able to clearly hear everything Animata just said. Great. "Just calm down," I say, "You don't have to be friends; just work together for now. Only one of you can come out of that arena anyway."

"Work together?" she says, "Look around. Does this _look_ like any form of teamwork?"

The Tens are huddled around the traps. The Sevens are having a bit of fun on the climbing wall. The Ones sit on the bench by the wall, not saying anything but making it clear that they've got each other's backs — and Splendor doesn't look too happy with her lips pressed firmly together. Animata's right. This isn't teamwork, even in the farthest stretch of the word.

"You do have a point."

"Exactly. We're not a team, and that's because for some reason or another. We just don't fit."

"What do you plan to do about it?"

"This alliance is just as good as no alliance. There's no point in keeping it if we're going to work like this. If we're still this mess by tomorrow, I'm breaking the alliance."

 _ **Christina Ford, 17, District Six Female**_

The girl from Two is loud. Really loud. Or maybe she just doesn't care what we think. Both ways, I get more information, and the more I know, the more I can do.

The bell soon rings to signal the end of the day, and I say goodbye to Raffaella. She hasn't said a single word all day, and I'm not too sure how I feel about that. She doesn't _look_ like the lying type, but that doesn't tell me anything. If she were a good liar, then I shouldn't be able to tell. In times like this, what you look like is more important than who you actually are, and the best players of the game are those who can convince the audience that they are who they _say_ they are, and I've got an edge in this area. Sure, the shimmering Ones know how to act because they've been taught to do that, but I learned from experience. The difference between acting well and not acting well was the difference between life and death, and it's the same way here.

Serge holds the elevator doors for me, and on the ride up, he, the Threes, the Fours, and I stand awkwardly, staring at each other.

Serge tries to diffuse the tension. "You all are awfully cold to each other."

Harbor snorts. "We're all in your alliance because of utility, not for your 'charming' personality. Besides, what happens if we reject? Do you sic the group on us?"

"Woah, calm down. Don't be so touchy. I didn't mean anything by that."

Harbor shrugs. "Is it really being touchy if we'll be at each other's throats in a few days?"

The elevator stops, and the Threes get out. Render appears to be in on the plan, but his partner isn't. I can only wonder why.

Soon, it's my floor, and Serge says a goodbye as I leave him in the elevator. He's too friendly. No one in the Hunger Games is naturally that friendly. The trained tributes might appear to be the biggest threat, but I wouldn't be surprised if Serge ended up killing several of us. As a wise man once said, the biggest threats are the people closest to you. At least, I think a wise man once said that. It could just be my own thoughts rambling.

I find Diesel sitting in the dining room, sipping on a glass of juice. Neither of our mentoisanywhere to be seen.

"What's that?" I say, pointing to the drink.

He shrugs. "Passionate Love Fruit or something like that. Not like any of it matters. Hearing them talk about food is like hearing another language."

"Is it good?"

"Why don't you get some and see?"

I order a glass from an Avox.

Diesel slumps in his chair, making him seem shorter than he already is. "I'm pretty sure our mentors gave up on us."

I press my lips together and don't reply.

"Jagger was here when I came in, but he left when he saw me." He chuckles bitterly. "Maybe he's feeling guilty about not being to do anything for us."

"Then we'll have to do it for ourselves," I say, "If our mentors won't help us, we'll have to show them we're worth saving."

He laughs. "Do you think we're worth saving?"

I open my mouth to protest, but my words get stuck halfway up my throat. "Well fine. Maybe we aren't. That doesn't mean I'm not going to try to save myself anyway."

He nods. "Serge talk to you?"

I press my lips together. "Yes."

"What did you say?"

"What choice did I have?"

"Good point."

"I heard he told you to work with Aaron and take out a trained tribute," I say, "Sounds like a death wish to me."

"Probably is. But we're all stuck now. I can't tell if he's controlling or just really optimistic."

It better be the latter. Gosh… I don't like this. I don't like this at all.

 **A/N Yes. I'm alive. Rapidly losing interest in the** _ **Hunger Games**_ **fandom, but still alive and writing. I also started a blog for writing practice, if you want to check it out. It's at josephswritingdump. blogspot. com.**

 **I won't bother with the questions. Let me know if you're reading, will you?**

 **Joseph**


	22. Summary, Part 1

**A/N I've decided to summarize the story, but I couldn't bear doing it in a quick summary. So, I've decided to split it up into two parts, the Games and the Pre-Games. This is the Pre-Games section (It's short; there were only three of these chapters left). I also decided to make it a little more interesting than a simple "this happened, that happened." I hope this doesn't bore you to death, and I hope you'll hold on as I sort everything out for the second part of this.**

 **Log of Demetrius Flask, Officer in the Capitol Society for Democracy**

 **(a.k.a. Rebel Society)**

 **Day 3, Training**

Today was a hot mess. When Royal Avington told me that his son was going to volunteer for the Hunger Games, it seemed like it would be a good idea. Onyx was tough, and he seemed like the perfect person for the job. However, all was not well. I received information that the time wasn't right. There wasn't enough support — unless Onyx became a beloved public figure, there was no way we could get away with assassination. So, I arranged a "sponsor meeting" with him and gave him the details. He did seems awfully displeased, but at least he has the motivation now to win. He could do it; he's a capable boy.

In other news, the trained alliance dissolved today. Apparently, Animata decided that the alliance wasn't working and decided to leave, after which several of the others decided to leave as well. So as of now, the only official alliances are between the Nines, Christina and Raffaella, Delmar and Keesa, and all the district pairs of the former trained alliance. Something seems to be going on, though. Footage of training shows many of the tributes getting friendly with each other. Definitely not normal. Onyx confirmed my suspicions when he told me that Serge has been talking to almost everyone.

On a positive note, the private scores came out today. Nothing seems out of the ordinary; Onyx scored particularly high. But with the alliance fractured, the Games may be a real challenge.

Logging out.

 **Game Show**

I just arrived home from the show and my, was it a show! Out of the many years since the introduction of the Game Show, this has to be the best. It was a fashion competition, and the tributes were given twenty minutes to find something fashionable from a wardrobe before coming out on stage and showing it off. Of course, Onyx and Splendor were dazzling — they knew exactly what they were doing, but the Harbor from Four — the one that was supposedly a prostitute — she was radiant! The way she dressed and showed herself off — I almost considered sponsoring her! Then, of course, I remembered that Onyx had to come out of that arena, but she was something else! If everything fails, I may very well support her. And to think that for the past few days, everyone has thought that she was a dirty little girl.

Logging out.

 **Interview Night**

I had another conversation with Royal Avington — he wasn't pleased at all. At least he cares about his son; I've never seen him exhibit this sort of behavior. But after the interviews of today, we may very well be doomed. Serge revealed during that interviews that he's constructed a non-traditional alliance with most of the tributes — Render, Apple, Harbor, Delmar, Aaron, Raffaella, Christina, Diesel, Taffeta, Ryzee, Allio, Clover, Ezra, and Keesa — and with a disunited trained group — everything's over. Unless Onyx pulls a miracle, our plans this year may be over.

Logging out.

Additional Note: Good news! I've just received a message from Royal — Onyx and Minisa managed to pull their alliance back together. We may have hope now. We just might have hope.

Sleeping will be hard tonight.

 **A/N. Thank you to all who are still here. Your support means the world to me.**

 **Also, do y'all remember the collab I did with Sophie and Nadine a while back (on Sophie's profile — link in my profile)? We're writing a second story, and though it's vaguely inspired by the Hunger Games, the only commonality is the teens fighting each other to the death. The time frame and world is completely different, and it's a story I'm very excited about. We've already decided to put it on Wattpad, but do y'all think it could fit in the Hunger Gamess section of ? Also, would you read it?**

 **For those who'll review, you may have to log out and post as a guest because this is replacing the note.**

 **I value your input.**

 **Joseph**


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